


My Love is in my Scars

by defractum (nyargles)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Organized Crime, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:29:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 35,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2530655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's alcohol involved, then a man with a gun with his fingers wrapping bruises around a girl's wrist as she screams, and Enjolras can't do nothing, not when someone's about to be killed <i>right in front of him</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would be nothing without my fantastic [socpuppet](http://socpuppet.tumblr.com/), who read and re-read and kept this story and the characterisations flowing. Nor would it without [tell-themstories](http://tell-themstories.tumblr.com/) because I am useless at plot and she is the mistress of all things plotty. Also thanks to the LMBB mods for running this! :D
> 
> And lastly, a huge thank you to my artist [ceylons](http://ceylons.tumblr.com/) for 1. her gorgeous art and 2. dealing with me leaving her with no new material to work with for months and months. Please go see her [art post](http://ceylons.tumblr.com/post/101393014248/my-half-of-the-big-bang-collab-with-defractum) and tell her how amazing she is!

The first time Enjolras deliberately killed a man, he had cried. Grantaire had watched him keep it all together until the body hit the ground, and then he had dropped to his knees and bowed his head. The rest of them had stayed, frozen, around the edges of the room, entirely unsure how to react. Then Enjolras' shoulders had started shaking, violent wracking shakes that rippled through his entire body, and Combeferre had walked up to him, gently put an arm around his shoulders and near carried him away.

Things had been easier back then, Grantaire thinks. Now, he steps forward when Enjolras is finished with his interrogation, his footsteps silent even against the hard concrete, and has his arm around the man's throat before he's even realised Grantaire is there. Grantaire sinks his serrated knife into the soft flesh of the man's throat, and pushes inwards.

Grantaire is good at what he does. He misses the big blood vessels on either side of the man's head, instead slicing right through to his windpipe. This is a much more slow and painful death compared to piercing a man's jugular. Grantaire lets go and leaves him on the floor as he pulls out his handkerchief, wiping the blood off his blade.

Enjolras watches the man as he slumps to the floor, hands scrabbling for the gaping hole in his throat, gurgling thickly as warm blood trickles down into his lungs.

When they emerge from the basement, it's night out already. The wind is a cool breeze on Grantaire's bare chest, and Enjolras has stopped, just outside of the door, waiting for him with the emptied can of gasoline dripping onto his boots. He holds up a lighter and flicks it without looking back at Grantaire.

Grantaire sticks his cigarette in the flame and takes a long, deep drag. He smokes half of it before flicking it back through the door they came through, and closes it behind him.

"Let's go," says Enjolras, as he always does, and they slink down the alleyways like shadows that have grown too bold. Behind them, a basement becomes a furnace and no one hears the blood-wet screaming of a man whose breaths whistle raggedly as he inhales smoke.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Three years ago** _

"Why," asks Joly as he emerges from the wine cellar, holding a bottle of rose, "is there a sex slave in the basement?"

Why indeed.

Enjolras is an investigative journalist, a good one. He's done lengthy articles and research for documentaries on everything from underpaid minimum wage workers to corrupt politicians to drug smuggling. Anything, in fact, that involves a large organisation flouting the law. Whatever Enjolras touches inevitably results in a flood of police investigations, government officials frantically trying to do damage control.

It breaks his heart, but he can't do anything when he's working; he has to have his story intact, released with no warning so the people he writes about have no time to run away or escape, or hide their tracks. And if they try – well, that's what Les Amis are for. If there is internet, satellite, CCTV, phone signal in a building, Combeferre can find them again.

For the first time, Enjolras is interfering with the events of a story.

He has seen an American presidential candidate upgrade his yacht and downgrade his cleaning staff's salary in the same day, and said nothing. He has lived as a Boyevik trading weapons through three bloody command changes in the Russian Mafia and somehow come out of it still alive. He has sat by as glassy-eyed women with swollen bellies walked into a room and walked back out not an hour later, flat-bellied and stitched up and with a very large amount of money in discreet backpacks, and done nothing.

But this time, Enjolras has to do something. He's in a warehouse, one the men supervising the lackeys. It's the second rung up a very long ladder, and it's already taken Enjolras four months to get this far. There's a huddle of subdued, shivering kids in the corner and Enjolras makes himself look at them.

"We need to bring in more food," he says, his voice gruff. "No one's going to pay us for a pile of skin and bones, and guess whose paycheques are gonna get cut first?" He glares around at blank faces. "Us, fuckwits! The boss sure as hell isn't gonna lose money over this." The men grumble, but at least the kids will be fed better – for a while.

Occasionally, they select a kid and send them out to a stranger in exchange for a large sum of money but tonight, there's no business and the man are bored. "Fuck this, if I'm not gonna get paid, I'm gonna have me some fun instead."

There's alcohol involved, then a man with a gun with his fingers wrapping bruises around a girl's wrist as she screams, and Enjolras can't do nothing, not when someone's about to be killed _right in front of him_.

(His traitorous mind whispers that he tolerates it well enough when it happens elsewhere, out of sight.)

Then Enjolras lunges forward; he has the gun and he fires three times and only one of the bullets actually hits anything but it's enough and then – and then there is a man slowly bleeding on the floor because everyone is too shocked to help him. Enjolras is _so screwed_.

He barks out orders and he knows they're going to be the last ones he gives because they're already getting suspicious of him. He keeps the gun. He grabs the girl and walks out of there and doubles back to the apartment he's using and throws his things into a suitcase and he spends the night at a hotel, just in case. And then he sends out messages to the people he needs, plans to meet up with them in small groups, and he starts on the beginnings of a plan. (He also throws up, thinking about the metallic stench of the blood, the crusted stains when the blood pooled around his shoes.) He emails every single scrap of evidence he has on the human trafficking ring to his editor, just in case he wakes up tomorrow to another man with a gun.

The first person he gets back in touch with is Combeferre, through an invisible IRC channel that most people have forgotten about, because Combeferre will get in touch with the others. He misses having them at his back all the time, but it's necessary when he goes undercover; he's never sure how closely he's being watched.

Combeferre gets back to him with a date. He doesn't need the time or place. Those are always the same.

Enjolras hasn't been 'Enjolras' for months now, but it takes no time at all for him to respond to the name when he slips into the back room of the Musain. Courfeyrac flings his arms around him and when Combeferre joins him, it's like coming home.

"I shouldn't have brought you into this," says Enjolras helplessly because he shouldn't have. This is dangerous. "But I was selfish, and I needed you."

"We know," says Courfeyrac. "Are people trying to kill you?"

"A little bit, yes," says Enjolras, which is somewhat of an understatement.

He's saved from having to actually clarify the specifics of people wanting to kill him, because that's when Joly walks in from the basement, holding a bottle of wine. "Why is there a sex slave in the basement?"

"Her name's Azelma," says Enjolras. "She's why we're having this meeting. I didn't want to leave her alone in the hotel room, but she wasn't comfortable meeting too many new people." _And the less she knows about what we actually do, the better_ , goes unsaid. He doesn't regret helping her. He just regrets that in doing so, he's lost his chance at helping the rest of the victims in the human trafficking ring he'd finally managed to infiltrate. Patron-Minette will move headquarters after this, go deeper underground, maybe be forced to get rid of 'evidence' quickly. That's on Enjolras.

"Enjolras," says Combeferre, and Enjolras knows what he's going to say just from the way his eyebrow twitches upwards.

"I didn't just _leave_ her in the basement in a corner," says Enjolras. "She's got a chair and a book and some snacks and a rape alarm."

"Hmm," says Combeferre, appeased.

"Just in case. It did seem the sort of thing you'd do," says Courfeyrac and God, Enjolras has missed his friends. He doesn't think about his friends all the time the way Courfeyrac seems to, because he has so many other things to think about, and he certainly doesn't worry about them because he knows they can take care of themselves, but he does miss them when he's undercover.

Enjolras has to repeat the story again for Bossuet and Bahorel when they come in. They need more people. It's not ideal, expanding their numbers so quickly. A small group is perfect for hacking, for trawling the internet for secrets and information but that's not enough if they're trying to take on a crime organisation by themselves. The only reason it's worked before is because they only come up with the information and published it for the world to see, to let the authorities do the rest.

In summary: they need manpower.

"We need – God, what do we even need?" asks Enjolras.

"We need to take down Patron-Minette," says Courfeyrac, ticking off fingers, "We need to get those kids to safety. And we need to not get killed doing it."

"I don't understand," says Bossuet with a frown. "Why are we not doing what we usually do?"

"No time," says Enjolras. "If we call the police, it'll be an anonymous tip off. If they even decide to check it out, Patron-Minette will be long gone and we don't have any solid evidence for them to carry on investigating after that. We need to do it ourselves."

They make a list of people who can help, and the list is abysmally short. Enjolras stares at the name on the bottom of the list, added as a reluctant afterthought, for a long time, and walks outside to make the phone call.

"Could you kill a man?" asks Grantaire, from the other end of the phone.

"No," says Enjolras immediately. "I mean – I think I might have. Yesterday. But, I didn't, it wasn't – Not deliberately."

Grantaire is silent for a long moment, before hanging up on Enjolras. He arrives the next morning, and Enjolras doesn't ask how he knew where they are.

"This is Grantaire. He helped me in the Russian Mafia. He actually knows how to use the weapons I was dealing with when I was there."

Courfeyrac squints. "You brought in a drunk Russian mobster to teach you self-defence?"

Grantaire raises his hand. "I resent that. I'm hungover, not drunk. I'm also not Russian or a mobster, but otherwise, spot on."

Enjolras sighs. "I know he doesn't look very – well, let's just say that letting people underestimate him is part of his technique."

What Grantaire also brings is an extensive network of contacts. Enjolras tries to suppress the guilty rush of relief when Grantaire just shrugs, and says, "Yeah, sure, let me make a few calls and see who gets back to me."

–

Grantaire comes with conditions. The first is that no one ever, _ever_ , suggests that he is drinking too much on the job. The second is that no one touches his guns. The third is that Enjolras can pay him in sexual favours. It was, he said, only reasonable if Enjolras was going to expect him to refuse other job offers and take himself off the grid to go underground with only the other Amis for company. Enjolras agrees, and informs everyone of Grantaire's first two conditions, and keeps the last one to himself.

"I see I'm your dirty little secret," says Grantaire in a low voice, arms crossed.

"Are you," says Enjolras blandly. He grabs him by the front of the shirt and yanks until Grantaire topples forward and Enjolras can plant a kiss on his lips without having to lean up.

Grantaire's wide, shocked look slides into a grin as he slides a hand onto Enjolras's waist. "You always did take things in your stride."

Enjolras shakes his head, and starts walking down the corridor. "I only try to seem that way," he says, and stops there. He shouldn't have to explain it to Grantaire. Grantaire walks behind him, not bothering to match his pace as Enjolras leads him towards the bedrooms, and so he can't see it when Enjolras licks his lip, savouring the lingering taste of Grantaire. It has been – a while. Enjolras can't remember the last time he was with someone, let alone someone who called him by his real name. It's just been assignment after assignment for years now.

Les Amis as a collective have a selection of houses owned under various names, and the living arrangements are, in theory, randomly assigned. In reality, everyone has their preferred hide-outs, and the only spare room is at Enjolras's.

Enjolras has barely frequented this place in the last three years. The downstairs gets used, because Les Amis treat it as their council rooms, but the upstairs is Enjolras's personal apartment, and... well.

"Charming," says Grantaire when Enjolras leads him into the spare bedroom, where a thin layer of fuzzy grey dust coats the bed.

"I don't get visitors often," says Enjolras, who only has clean sheets to sleep on himself for the last few nights because Combeferre had thought to have them changed. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and he can feel his ears getting pink. Needless to say, he'd completely forgotten to clean the spare room. "You can stay in my room for now, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind. Do you mind?"

"Yes," says Enjolras honestly, because after six months of living with greasy, unshaven, dirty slobs who exploit women, he just wants his own space. "But. It's fine. Just don't grope me when I'm sleeping, alright?"

Grantaire grins sharply. "Of course not. Where's the fun in that?"

"Make yourself at home."

Enjolras goes to bed early that night after a long, hot shower that just about helps to strip the grime of the last four months off his body. He can feel the exhaustion clinging to his very bones, and has just enough presence of mind to leave half the bed empty for Grantaire before curling up under the covers and passing out.

When he wakes up, there's no evidence that there's been another person on the bed at all. Instead, the cushions on the sofa in the living room look distinctly squashed and smell faintly of cigarette smoke; two empty beer bottles are tucked around the side. Enjolras frowns, but Grantaire doesn't mention it so neither does he. He carries on leaving half the bed empty, and Grantaire carries on sleeping on the sofa until Enjolras gets around to putting clean sheets in the spare bedroom and Grantaire moves there instead.

With Grantaire's arrival, the atmosphere becomes decidedly more serious. Before they decided to take down a sex trafficking ring, they relied on information and stealth, computer skills and whispers on the internet. Any violence was a last resort. Grantaire begs to differ.

"Lesson one," says Grantaire the next morning, standing in the middle of what is nicknamed the 'war chamber'. It hosts four permanent computers, covers exposed to reveal all the extra hardware they've upgraded over the years, with multiple monitors attached to each. Combeferre and Bossuet can usually be found attached to them, teasing whatever snippets of information they need out of cyberspace, but for now, the mess of wires and electronics have been eased to one side of the room.

Grantaire stands in his socks in the middle of the dusty carpet, bottle of beer dangling from his fingertips even though it's only mid-morning. "It's not that you should go in wanting to start a fight, it's that you should go in knowing you're going to finish it." He points dramatically at Courfeyrac. "The man we've got a lead on for Patron-Minette. What are you going to do with him?"

Startling, Courfeyrac looks sideways at Enjolras. Enjolras keeps his face blank. He hadn't known Grantaire had known about that either. Grantaire huffs at the both of them. "I was reading the notes you had spread out on the table when we were clearing the room. Come on, you lot."

"I suppose," says Courfeyrac, shifting uneasily, "we'll ask him nicely. And then if he appears to be withholding information, Bahorel will punch him until he tells us."

"Punch to hurt, kill or maim?"

"Hurt," says Courfeyrac immediately. Enjolras frowns; this feels like a test.

Grantaire nods. "And once you've hurt him, and he's given you what you're looking for, what's to stop him from telling someone and warning them?"

Courfeyrac bites his lip. "Maaaiiiiiim...?" he amends uncertainly. Grantaire waits. "No," says Courfeyrac eventually, quietly, "Kill. It would be kinder than leaving him disabled for the rest of his life."

"Are you saying disabled people can't lead fulfilling lives?" Grantaire's lips quirk upwards. Always the devil's advocate.

"No, of course not," says Courfeyrac, "but Patron-Minette will always consider him a traitor, and – I just meant –"

"It was a trick question," says Grantaire finally, interrupting him. "What I would do is torture the information out, and then secure him somewhere until I could verify the information and act upon it." He clears his throat. "Of course, I'd also kill him afterwards, but that's just me. But that is my point. You have to know exactly what end result you want."

–

Patron-Minette seem to have vanished without a trace. When Enjolras sends Grantaire and Bahorel (voted unanimously by the group as the two most likely to fit in with a band of scruffy, disgusting human traffickers, much to Grantaire's amusement) to every single hide-out he remembers Patron-Minette having, they've all been cleared out. He'd expected that, of course, but there aren't even any clues as to where they've gone.

Grantaire sharpens his knives and cleans his guns in Enjolras's living room and flirts outrageously with him and Enjolras has to wonder what's keeping him here since he's obviously not cashing in on his payment.

"For someone who wants to have sex with me," says Enjolras, "we're not having a lot of sex." In hindsight, perhaps he ought to have opened the conversation differently, perhaps starting over with 'Why are you here, really?'

Grantaire takes another sip of his drink. "For someone who doesn't want to have sex with me, you do like bringing it up."

"Who said I don't want to have sex with you?" Enjolras frowns. "I agreed, didn't I?"

Grantaire smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "No one had to." He gestures at Enjolras with his bottle. "This is not what someone who wants to have sex with me looks like."

"What does that look like? This?" Enjolras is a good actor. He has to be, to maintain covers and do his goddamn job. He pulls out the band tying his hair back and flings it loose, throws one hip forward and slinks toward Grantaire until their chests are pressed together. He traces one fingertip along Grantaire's collarbone and Grantaire catches his wrist.

"God, Enjolras. Fuck, no. What do you think I'm asking for?" Grantaire drops his hand and scowls at him. He drains the rest of his bottle, and walks stiffly out of the room. Enjolras watches him go. He's offended Grantaire, he knows. But – he wasn't lying. He just doesn't know how to tell Grantaire.

–

The first of Grantaire's friends to actually respond to Grantaire's phone calls is Jehan. Jehan, how to describe Jehan... Well.

"You look like you like pretty boys," says Jehan. He walks towards them all with a sashay that draws attention to the tight pull of leather across his hips, but it's Courfeyrac he's talking to.

"I do like pretty boys," admits Courfeyrac.

Jehan steps right up, leaving no personal space whatsoever, and pours himself across Courfeyrac, his arms sliding up around his neck and their bodies pressing together from chest to knee. Courfeyrac's hands drop out of his pockets to help balance Jehan almost automatically, sliding up and around his waist. Jehan smiles at him, silky smooth, and grinds their hips together.

"Are you going to kill me?" asks Courfeyrac.

"No," says Jehan, trailing one hand down Courfeyrac's back until he reaches the gun holster, stiff and new, tucked into the back of Courfeyrac's jeans. "Though I might consider it if you grab my arse."

Courfeyrac cups his hands over the soft roundness of Jehan's arse, and squeezes it. Jehan laughs, and slides his fingers over the gun.

"You always have the most interesting friends, R," says Jehan, smile bright and wide.

Grantaire bows with a flourish. "That I do," he says dryly, unmistakably referring to Jehan himself.

"I like this one. I want him," says Jehan, squirming in Courfeyrac's arms.

"You can't have him, he's mine," says Combeferre, almost absently, not even looking up from his computer as he runs facial recognition software on CCTV footage.

Jehan pouts, his lower lip sticking out almost comically. "You wouldn't consider sharing, would you?"

Combeferre does look up then. He sweeps his gaze up and down Jehan's body appraisingly. "I'm sure we could come to an arrangement, eventually," he says, amused.

Courfeyrac swallows, his eyes wide and dilated with a heady rush of fear and arousal; Jehan watches his adam's apple bob very obviously up and down, and purrs.

"That went better than I expected," remarks Enjolras, leaving the three of them to get to know each other better. "I was almost certain there were going to be at least knives involved."

"It looks like there still might be," says Grantaire with a little smirk. Enjolras just looks at him, lips pursed.

Grantaire turns to leave, the introductions being over, but when he walks past Enjolras, he says, quietly, "That's what it looks like when people want to sleep with each other."

–

When Enjolras is jolted out of his sleep one night to a knife pressed to his throat, his first thought is: "Grantaire?" He realises after a sleep-befuddled moment that it's probably not Grantaire. Grantaire has had plenty of chances to kill him by now. "Sorry," he says into the darkness, feeling the smooth edge of the knife pressing at his skin. "Not Grantaire."

"Where's the girl?" The voice in the dark belongs to a woman, but aside from that, Enjolras can't tell anything about her. His bedroom window is open and there are no trees this side of the house.

"Ah. You must be from Patron-Minette." Enjolras wonders vaguely whether she disabled the security system that Combeferre put together or whether he should talk a bit louder in the hopes of waking the assassin in the spare room.

The knife against his throat jerks and Enjolras winces as he feels it slice lightly into his skin. "What?" asks the woman.

Enjolras thinks rapidly. "You're… not from Patron-Minette. Huh. Interesting."

They sit in taut silence for a long moment; Enjolras feels the warmth of a single drop of blood well up and roll down his neck. The woman gets impatiently eventually. " _Well_ ? Where's the girl?"

Enjolras's mind is going in a hundred different directions but his instincts tell him – and Courfeyrac tells him he has awful people-reading instincts so Enjolras will not be in the least bit surprised if this backfires horribly – that he can tell her this. "Safe," says Enjolras. "She's safe."

The knife at his throat quivers.

The door bursts open, flinging back so wildly that it smacks into the wall and rebounds off again, and the lights flare on. Enjolras yelps from the sudden glare, and raises a hand to shield his eyes. The knife is gone, the mattress beneath Enjolras springing back up now there is no longer the weight of a body on top of his.

The mysterious figure is next to the window now, and Enjolras suspects that if they weren't on the second storey, she would have just dived straight out. As it is, she freezes comically in the window frame as she looks back at them. "R?" she blurts out incredulously.

The white spots are fading from Enjolras's vision, and he can see that it was indeed Grantaire who interrupted them. He's standing to one side of the doorway with a gun in one hand and a big-ass knife in the other, and he's absolutely buck naked.

"You sleep naked?" asks Enjolras, which is a completely inappropriate question for any time, let alone _right now_. "I've _sat_ on that sofa since you've slept on it."

Grantaire rightly ignores him. "I _am_ interrupting an assassination attempt and not a nighttime tryst, right?" His tone is jovial, but his eyes flicker off his target momentarily to look over at Enjolras and oh – Enjolras grabs a tissue off the nightstand and presses it to his throat.

"Practically a papercut," Enjolras reassures him. "Do you two know each other?"

"I don't know," says Grantaire down the sights of his gun. "Do we?"

The woman sighs, pulls off her balaclava. "Hey R. It's been a while."

"Oh hey," says Grantaire, lowering his gun. "Éponine!"

She gets off the windowsill; Grantaire clicks the safety on his gun and tosses it onto Enjolras' bed as he tumbles forward. Enjolras tugs his duvet covers up to his chest, and watches two assassins hug it out in his bedroom. "Right. Someone please tell me what's going on?"

"This is Éponine," says Grantaire. "She does stuff. Not strictly legal stuff."

"Stuff like climb up the side of buildings and interrogate people in the middle of the night?" asks Enjolras.

Éponine snorts. "Not likely. Mostly I just steal their shit. This is a special occasion." Oh. That seems… almost mundane. She sits down on the bed, traces one of the stripes up Enjolras's duvet for a moment before she speaks again. "The girl – Azelma. She's my sister."

Ah.

There are about a dozen things Enjolras wants to set into motion right now but frankly, it's 3am, he's exhausted and Grantaire is still naked. So, Enjolras sets Éponine up on the sofa until morning ("Did you say you'd slept naked on this thing, R?" asks Éponine, eyeing it in distaste), and herds Grantaire back into the spare room, telling him to _please_ put some underwear on.

"You were staring," observes Éponine quietly from the sofa after Grantaire shuts the door behind him, and Enjolras jumps because he'd thought she hadn't been looking.

"Mnnnrgh," he says, so very coherently, and staggers off to flop back into bed. Everything else can all wait.

–

Combeferre has an update for him – he's closed in on the lead they were chasing on Patron-Minette. Enjolras is half in shock because leads never pan out on the first try. He'd been expecting months of frustrating red herrings and dead ends and names that disappeared off the map. Instead, they have a name and a location and, thanks to Combeferre, actual live camera footage they've managed to hack into.

"That's definitely Montparnasse," says Azelma, when they show her. "He was – He was. Not the worst." She's sitting on the bed, her knees tucked in to her chest, and rewinding the footage over and over to make sure. "He makes sure we get fed and watered and showered when the others wouldn't bother."

  
Enjolras nods, thanks her. They leave her with Bahorel – with whom she's developed an unlikely friendship probably due to the fact that he acts like her protector, vowing to hurt anyone who goes near her without permission – and the rest of them head over to Enjolras's, discussing battle plans on the way.

Azelma doesn't want to see Éponine, not yet, so Éponine's still in Enjolras's house. When they get back, she's found a spare blanket from somewhere, raided the fridge and made herself an enormous bagel that she refuses to share. "Fuck off," she says cheerfully. "Or I'll sleep naked on your sofa." Joly, currently sitting on said sofa, looks a little alarmed.

The battle plans, which tentatively involve a couple of weeks of surveillance, infiltration into the area and methodically blocking off the entire block so Montparnasse will have nowhere to run, all go flying out of the window when Grantaire fills Éponine in. Enjolras isn't sure what to feel, given she was brandishing a knife at him as recently as _earlier this very day_ , but Grantaire evidently trusts her with the details of their operation.

"Montparnasse? I know him," says Éponine, face hardening as she puts her bagel down. "Old acquaintance." The way she rounds her mouth around the word with distaste makes Enjolras wonder if he was an ex. He gives her an assessing look. "I don't run with him _now_ ," she says, misinterpreting his look.

"He knows you and yet he had your sister?" asks Grantaire, lowering his hip flask to stare incredulously. "Even I'm not that much of a backstabbing bastard."

Éponine's face closes up. "It's been years. Azelma's – there's a big age gap between us. She'd have been too young to remember him and he probably wouldn't recognise her. Anyway. Let me see what I can do."

What she can do turns out to be quite a lot. She sends off a bunch of texts, scrolls through the replies as they slowly ping back to her during the afternoon, and shrugs at them. "So I'm supposedly meeting him for lunch next Thursday at the old diner behind the station. You can get him then."

"That was significantly less complicated," says Courfeyrac admiringly.

"I thought you just steal stuff," says Enjolras dryly as the other Les Amis whip up new plans.

Éponine looks up at him and shrugs. "Stealing from stupid rich people, kidnapping an old acquaintance and possibly stabbing his eyes out for hurting my sister: same thing."

–

Enjolras would never ask anyone to do something he wouldn't do himself.

It's this particular thing about him that has him learning how to rewire and short circuit security boxes from Bossuet, and study the basics of boxing and kickboxing from Bahorel. Joly teaches him anatomy, sometimes from textbooks and sometimes from actual cadavers 'borrowed' from the university hospital. Before, each of them had their own particular skillset, and Enjolras's was command and strategy. Now, he wants each of them to be as well-versed in everything as they can, in case they're caught out on their own, because they face real physical threats now.

From Grantaire? Enjolras practices his knifeplay.

It's not really Grantaire's speciality, but that really says more about his sniper skills than his lack of knife skills. Enjolras can kill a man with a knife in close combat at this point, though Grantaire still ducks out of the way when they're practising with throwing knives. He wants to move Enjolras on to bigger weapons, perhaps machetes or a short sword, except _next Thursday_ is almost a week from now and Enjolras can feel the tension growing inside him as his conversations with Combeferre get curter and he stops listening to what people are saying. He needs to expel it before it forcibly explodes out of him instead.

The two canes are old. They're a relic of a life before this one, when Enjolras had blood ties and grandparents he acknowledged. He's aware he probably looks thunderous; his shoulders are hunched so tight he can hardly move them, and he practically thrusts one of the canes at Grantaire.

"I heard you're skilled at single-stick," he says.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. "I seriously hope you're not expecting to bring down a sex trafficking ring using canes."

Enjolras doesn't respond, merely takes up a stance.

Grantaire catches the stick, and gives it a twirl. Enjolras just shrugs when he sees Grantaire raise an eyebrow at him, hefting the weight of it in his hand. It's a practice stick, which means it's heavier than a competition stick, but then, this is not a competition.

"Alright," is all Grantaire says; Enjolras scowls. He hates it when Grantaire is obviously censoring himself in front of Enjolras, which is hilarious because he spends a lot of time wishing Grantaire did it more often.

Enjolras doesn't actually know anything more than basic moves but he lets momentum dictate the way his moves as the heavy cane swings through the air. The air whistles as the cane whips through it, and Enjolras pours his frustration and impatience into the move. Grantaire blocks him easily and Enjolras just tries again from the other side.

There's actually no logical way that Enjolras is going to beat him like this, because Grantaire _is_ skilled at single-stick. Enjolras is just pissed off and frustrated and not thinking straight, and it's maddeningly obvious that Grantaire is going easy on him. Still, there's a lot of satisfaction in just feeling the _thwack_ of sticks against sticks and feeling the weight behind Grantaire's blocks.

Grantaire lets him get more and more wound up, laughs with his eyes too bright as if this is the best fun he's ever had and not like Enjolras is going out of his mind with rage. Enjolras ends up hitting straight up and down repeatedly until his arms burn, and he can barely breathe from exertion. His fingers are half cramped around the stick; he's not sure he can actually let go, but when the cane slithers out from his grip, he finds that he can't tighten them fast enough to stop it falling either. The stick clatters to the floor.

Enjolras is surprised to find himself heaving, breath wheezing in and out of his body, and he staggers when he tries to reach down to pick the stick up. Grantaire lurches forward to catch him around the waist, and Enjolras pours himself across him, surges up with strength he didn't know he had left and propelling them both across the room.

Grantaire lets out a pained ' _oof_!' when his back hits the wall and Enjolras sinks into him as if he's a dying man. He finds Grantaire's mouth with his own, swallows the sound of surprise Grantaire makes and gasps into the kiss. Grantaire is frozen for a second and Enjolras slides his tongue across Grantaire's lower lip, and licks the taste of whiskey off it. Bites down.

Large, too-hot hands grab Enjolras around the waist, pinching in until he's sure to have bruises the next day, and then Grantaire is giving as good as he's got. Their teeth clack against each other and Grantaire groans as Enjolras fists his hair in his hands and tugs. Everything hurts; everything feels amazing. Enjolras is going to have stubble burn and he _doesn't care_ because Grantaire's mouth is hot and wet and so eager for his own.

He comes back to himself slowly, and then all at once, and Grantaire must feel it when Enjolras relaxes, because his hands smooth over Enjolras's waist, comforting instead of demanding, propping him up.

Enjolras clings to Grantaire like a newborn kitten, and rests his forehead against his shoulder. "Sorry," he says, his voice raspy.

Grantaire smoothes his hair back, half plastered to his head with sweat, and tilts his face by the chin until their eyes meet. "Don't," says Grantaire. His eyes are hard and fierce and desperate all at once. "Don't apologise."

It takes Enjolras a few goes for his voice to work properly. "Alright. I won't." He allows himself this, at least; lets Grantaire hold him until the sweat cools on his back and his t-shirt sticks to him. And then he steps back, smoothes himself down. Grantaire just leans against the wall, one leg kicked up behind him, and watches him warily.

"Thank you," says Enjolras eventually, and that earns him a crooked smile. He clears his throat. "That's probably enough practise for today."

–

Enjolras isn't sure where Éponine stays, but she obviously has somewhere of her own, because she just disappears after meetings and reappears when she wants to.

" _Fuck_ ," yells Enjolras, when he gets up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and finds her climbing in at the window. Again.

It all feels very deja-vu when Grantaire bursts in with a gun. At least this time, he's wearing underwear. He puts the gun down when the lights are on and he sees it's Éponine. "Are you sure I haven't been interrupting a tryst?" he asks, squinting suspiciously.

"I can't deal with this right now," says Enjolras as light spots explode in his vision, "I _really_ need the toilet."

He makes his way there mostly through muscle memory, and leans his forehead against the wall because he's too tired to stand up properly and piss, and by the time he's back, Grantaire and Éponine have tucked themselves up onto his bed.

"Why," says Enjolras piteously.

"Poor baby," says Grantaire, mouth trembling with laughter. "Come on."

Enjolras rubs at his eyes. This has got to be serious, he supposes. He yawns, stretches himself out, and yanks at his covers until they shift enough for him to wrap it around himself. "What is it? Is it about Montparnasse?"

"Not exactly." Éponine's eyes are solemn and, Enjolras realises, tired. "Patron-Minette. If you're going after them, there's something you should know. You should look into the Thénardiers."

"Who?" Enjolras frowns, because the name actually rings a bell, but he can't quite remember where from, perhaps a previous research job he had.

"Thénardiers. They're the ringleaders."

Enjolras reaches for pen and paper, jots it down. "All right. We'll see what Combeferre can find on them. Thank you."

"You're welcome.You're lending me your couch again for the night in return." Éponine pulls herself up, and Enjolras notices that she's wearing a tiny black dress. She looks exhausted. "Also, I'm working on getting my own inside man into the group. He's got – advantages."

Enjolras waits for her to expand, but she doesn't. "And?"

" _And_ you should look into a better lock for your bedroom window," she says tartly, picking up a pair of heels she must have kicked off and making her way to his sofa.

It's Grantaire who turns the lights out and follows to grab a spare blanket for her, but after a minute or two, he knocks on Enjolras's door again.

"Yeah?" asks Enjolras, voice fuzzy already.

Grantaire stands, a silhouette next to Enjolras's bed. When Enjolras looks up at him, it's too dark to see the expression on his face, and he holds something out to Enjolras. It's a gun, the polished metal glinting where it peeks out from the holster.

"What's this?" asks Enjolras stupidly.

"It's a gun," says Grantaire, and Enjolras opens his mouth to say something sarcastic when Grantaire carries on, uncharacteristically serious. "You should keep one on hand, in case anyone from Patron-Minette really does climb through your window. I won't always be fast enough to save you."

"I," says Enjolras. "I'm not that good a shot yet."

"We practice on a range where the target is fifty metres out," says Grantaire. "I think you can manage to shoot someone standing three paces away."

"Where do I keep it?"

"Preferably under your pillow, with the safety on. If that makes you uncomfortable, you can strap the holster to your headboard." Grantaire waggles the gun at him, and Enjolras takes it. "And first thing in the morning, we're getting the locks on all your windows sorted."

"Okay, but – why are you still here, Grantaire?" It just – comes out, spilling into the soft darkness between them. Enjolras has been meaning to ask this for so long now but it seems every time he gets close, Grantaire distracts him, so he has to still ask it whilst he remembers to.

"Well _someone_ needs to teach you how to shoot and stab people, and who would do that if I weren't here?" asks Grantaire with mock horror, and it makes Enjolras sigh. He leans over, and turns on the lamp, a warm glow erasing the shadows between them.

"I'm not – I'm _glad_ you're here, Grantaire. Goddamn it, can't you just answer the question? You're so invested in keeping me safe and I don't even know why."

Grantaire shrugs. "Why not? I might be a mercenary and a hitman, but I'm a well paid one. That means I get to pick what I do, and occasionally, that's… charity work."

"Charity work," says Enjolras flatly, and the frustration is giving way to anger as it starts to bubble up, except Grantaire looks like he's already regretting his choice of words. _Good_.

"That's not what I mean. I – You asked for my help, Enjolras, and I wasn't going to say no. I know a worthy cause when I see one."

"And that's it," says Enjolras suspiciously. "You drop everything in your life to come protect me, to do good deeds for me? For _free_ ?"

"Yeah," says Grantaire. "Is that so hard to believe? That's what everyone else did, isn't it?"

"That's different. They're my –" _Friends_. Enjolras stops himself short, and swallows the last word. Oh.

Grantaire licks his lips. "Ah. I see you didn't feel the same way." He turns, and pads out of the room. "Good night, Enjolras."

"Your gun –"

"Keep it."

Enjolras tries with it under his pillow, but that makes his pillow lumpy, and he's constantly worried he'll accidentally nudge the safety off in his sleep so he hangs it off one of his bedposts instead. From there, he can't quite stop flicking his eyes to look at it, an ambiguous dark shape that nonetheless seems to loom over him. He reaches out hesitantly to touch it, and realises that the holster is battered and old, soft and worn to the touch. It's one of Grantaire's personal handguns, and it reassures him just by being there. Like Grantaire does.

But he has no idea how to say that to Grantaire himself.

–-

It turns out that Éponine is better at this than any of them had thought. The diner is set back off the street with a secluded alleyway right next to it. The road itself is sparsely populated, even at lunchtime, and it must be a truly dire place to eat because there's only two other people in there, and one of them just appears to be asking for directions.

Montparnasse doesn't even make it into the diner. Bahorel and Bossuet, the bulkiest of them all, barrel down the street, forcing him to step into the alleyway for just a moment, and then Grantaire has him trapped against the wall, arm twisted up behind him and a rag stuffed into his mouth before he can even yell. Bossuet and Bahorel quickly block the view to the alley, lest anyone walks past and sees them, but Grantaire works so swiftly and efficiently there's barely anything to see.

Grantaire does something with his open palm and a single blow and then Montparnasse slumps over in his arms, out cold. Sometimes Enjolras forgets just _how good_ Grantaire is at what he does.

Jehan is the getaway driver, because he seems the least likely person to be toting a bound prisoner in the back, and the rest of them scatter to take different routes back. Enjolras somehow ends up waiting for a bus with Grantaire behind a line of elderly people. "Oh, that was fun," says Grantaire. "I haven't beat someone up like that for a while."

Enjolras shoots him a mortified look, because there's no way the tiny old lady in front of them had not heard that, and resorts to stepping on Grantaire's foot. It backfires: Grantaire's wearing steel-capped boots and Enjolras ends up with a bruised arch instead. "Don't worry," murmurs Grantaire, leaning in close. "They'll just think we're talking about _games_ or something." He wiggles his eyebrows, and demonstrates by raising his voice again. "Remember that time we stripped a Russian mobster down to his underwear and left him in the rain?"

And right, that was actually a thing that happened the first time Enjolras met Grantaire but there was _context_ and it's not like this is something that Enjolras habitually does, but he does see Grantaire's point because the biggest reaction they get is a huffed _youngsters!_ from somewhere in front of them and that's probably because Grantaire's voice is quite loud.

The bus journey is long and winding and a bit of an anti-climax after dealing with Montparnasse.

They squash in together on one seat near the back of the bus, which feels strangely claustrophobic and intimate. His leg starts jiggling, a side-effect of the adrenaline pumping through his veins, and Grantaire gently puts a hand on his thigh to stop him.

Enjolras looks down at his hand, at the long knobbly fingers rough from use and the stark blood vessels just under the skin, and places his own hand over it. "If I asked you to kill him for me," says Enjolras in a low voice, "would you?"

"That's what I came here to do," says Grantaire, giving him a considering look.

"I won't ask you to," says Enjolras. "But I just wanted to know if you would if I asked." That seems to satisfy Grantaire; he squeezes Enjolras's knee slightly, and lets go. It's not until it's not there anymore that Enjolras realises how hot his palm was against Enjolras's leg.

By the time they get to the warehouse, Montparnasse is conscious again. He glowers at them as they walk in, but given he's very nearly wrapped in a cocoon of twisted rope, courtesy of Jehan and what looks like some bondage techniques, there's not much else he can do.

Jehan is curled up in the only piece of furniture they've got in the warehouse. It's an overstuffed armchair with paisley and floral prints over it and it just sits incongruously in the middle of the wide, open space. It's very Jehan. He waves at them.

"Jehan scares me," says Enjolras.

Grantaire waves back. "You take that back. Jehan is an adorable soul who wouldn't hurt a bunny rabbit."

"He tortures people mostly out of morbid curiosity."

"Yes," says Grantaire patiently, "But he wouldn't hurt a _bunny rabbit_." He drops his work bag onto the floor with a _clank_. It's basically a duffel bag full of guns and knives and shit just bouncing around in the bag. It's ridiculous and Enjolras is genuinely perplexed firstly as to how he finds anything in there and secondly as to how he hasn't accidentally shot himself yet. "Hey Jehan. I thought he'd be shouting more."

Jehan's equivalent of a work bag is a carry-on suitcase, lying open on the ground. It's stylish and done up to look like a leather trunk and the inside unfolds to reveal dozens of neat layers of compartments for each weapon type. It's kind of threatening just by existing.

Jehan pouts. "You missed the shouting stage. He got bored. You've been _ages_ , I almost got started without you. Where's everyone else?"

Enjolras strips his jacket off brusquely, thought it does little to his the way his fingers tremble. "They're not coming."

All three of them turn to look at Montparnasse, who glares back at them, and rolls away as best as he can whilst hogtied. He shuffles maybe a couple of inches; Grantaire sighs, and fishes out his hip flask for a long pull.

The others have probably realised by now that Enjolras has tricked them, shuffled them off across town so they don't have to be here. His stomach churns with the guilt of lying to his friends, or maybe it's the guilt of a murder he has yet to commit; he can't quite tell. "Let's get this over with," says Enjolras grimly.

It doesn't take long.

Montparnasse is excessively vain, and starts spilling information every time Jehan even vaguely hints at disfiguring his face. It's... bizarre. There's not much torture going on at all, and the strange knotted feeling in Enjolras's stomach starts to unravel. It's not as bad as he'd thought it would be. Not nearly as bad.

Near the end, when they're just about out of questions, Enjolras asks, "Why do you do it?" He has to know. There's got to be something, _something_ that would make a person turn to this; there's got to be some extenuating circumstance that Enjolras just doesn't know yet.

Montparnasse peers up at him. "It's good money, isn't it? And you get to have your fun with the kiddies."

Enjolras sees red. He has a gun out of Grantaire's work bag before he even realises he does; it's pointed and he clicks the safety off and out of his peripheral vision, he sees both Grantaire and Jehan start towards him.

His hand is shaking. The tip of the gun wavers, and Enjolras stares down it for a long moment before lowering the gun.

"Enjolras –" starts Grantaire, but then a door on the far side of the warehouse slams open and the rest of Les Amis come tumbling in.

"Enjolras!" yells Combeferre. " _Don't_."

Enjolras had only needed a moment. He'd lowered the gun to take a deep breath. Steady himself. He raises the gun and looks down the sight, aiming like Grantaire taught him, and shoots Montparnasse in the face.

Time goes a bit blurry. So does everything else. Enjolras dimly registers the dead silence, or perhaps the sheer volume of a real gunshot that momentarily deafens him. There's Grantaire moving up in front of him, mouthing muffled words and sliding the gun out from his hands, and then there's Combeferre, dragging him away.

It's not until someone drapes a thick coat over him that Enjolras even realises that he's cold, and he's cold despite the entirely reasonable temperature outside. He shivers. Blinks. A tear trickles down his cheek and Enjolras raises a hand to find that he's been crying. Is still crying.

"Enjolras?"

He looks up to see Courfeyrac, hovering beside him. "I'm sorry," he says numbly.

"Oh, Enjolras," says Courfeyrac, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and squeezing.

Enjolras wipes his eyes with his sleeve; he hasn't done that in years. "I should go back in," he says eventually, piecing himself together as he stands up. He shrugs the coat off – it's Combeferre's – and stops, momentarily derailed by the appearance of thick blood splatter across the front of his shirt.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," says Courfeyrac, the worry evident in the set of his shoulders, the unhappy tilt of his mouth. "They're taking care of it."

Enjolras snaps back to himself. "What? No – No. I need to go back in." He shrugs off the coat and darts past Courfeyrac, wrenching the door open so violently that it bangs against the wall and echoes around the empty warehouse. It's too late.

His eyes flit to the empty space where the body – no, the man – had been, and he pales. "Where is he?"

"Joly and Jehan are dissolving the body with acid," says Combeferre carefully.

"I should have got rid of him - it," he says. "I don't need you to do my dirty work." Combeferre and Grantaire look at each other helplessly from where they're scrubbing the last of the blood off the floor and walls.

"Next time," says Enjolras. "Next time, I'll deal with the body."

No one questions that there will be a next time.

–

Enjolras has no regrets. He'd known all along that they weren't going to leave Montparnasse alive. It's what Grantaire taught him, after all. The next day, he gets reamed out no less than seven times by various of his friends; it seems they don't take being given fake plans so they won't have to witness a murder too well. Enjolras has no regrets about that either.

He buries himself in their next step instead. The appearance of half a dozen dead kids turn up on the news, suspected to be kidnapped and sold off, and Enjolras's heart breaks just a little more. Now they've got information from Montparnasse, they need to move quickly. They hash out suggestions and solidify them into feasible plans late into the night. Jehan's ideas get steadily more vicious, more brutal, and Courfeyrac lays a hand on his arm, brow furrowed with concern.

"Tell me you disagree," says Jehan, eyes bright with fury as the news plays on a loop in the background. "Tell me."

There's a momentary pause, then – "I don't," says Courfeyrac in a low voice that sounds like a confession, flicking his eyes around the group to see who's listening. They all are.

–

Feuilly turns up by himself. He just appears the next day; he walks up to Enjolras's house and sits on the front doorstep until Éponine finds him when she's leaving, this time actually through the front door of the house.

"You need more people," he says, and holds up a half corrupted copy of the email Enjolras had sent Combeferre the day he had taken Azelma and run.

"What the fuck," says Éponine.

"Is R here?" he asks.

Grantaire is suddenly there. "I am. Who – Feuilly!"

"You know him?" demands Enjolras, holding a knife in one hand. "Do you know _everyone_ ? Do you make friends with everyone after they try to kill you?"

Grantaire absently reaches over and adjusts his grip, before pushing everyone aside and letting Feuilly in, frisking him efficiently and ending it with a firm hug. "Yeah, he tried to kill me when he thought I was a drunk Russian mobster once. I've got scars and everything."

"Well," says Feuilly calmly, "I am Polish."

-

"How did you know that Grantaire would be here?" asks Enjolras when they're in private. When he had sent that message, he hadn't even decided to bring Grantaire on board this yet.

"He mentioned you a few times," says Feuilly. "An hour, I mean."

"Pardon?"

"He mentioned you a few times ... per hour."

"Oh," says Enjolras. "Well, I did nearly get him killed several times."

"Interestingly enough, he didn't mention that." Feuilly stops rummaging through his backpack and looks up at Enjolras. "You're the one who wrote the piece on the the effects of the EU on international crime organisations, right?"

"Yes," says Enjolras slowly. That had been under a pseudonym. Most of his work has been under various fake names.

"And you did the research for that documentary on border crimes two years ago."

"Yes," says Enjolras again, and can't help but smile a little. He doesn't do it for the recognition, he _really doesn't_ because if he did then it wouldn't all be under different names, but – "I'm flattered you recognised them both as me. Slightly creeped out, but immensely flattered."

Feuilly's smiling, but Enjolras doesn't know him well enough to know what that means. "I've had my eye on you for a while. You do good work."

"Thank you. I – thank you."

"Why did you change line of work?"

Enjolras has to sit down for this, he thinks. "I... I didn't," he says, realising it's true when the words come out of his mouth. "I always hoped that when I exposed people for the atrocities they commit, something would happen. Perhaps people would be aware, and protest against it, or the authorities would do the right thing. Arrest the people involved, put them on trial. But – nothing changed. Sure, people now know these things happen, but as long as it doesn't directly affect them or their families, no one's motivated to actually _do_ anything about it."

"So you decided that you had to be the one?"

"How could I _not_ ?" The words pour out of Enjolras's mouth unbidden. "How could I stand by and do nothing? I – I have, you know. When I was in Russia, the first time I worked with Grantaire. He wanted to save someone. It wouldn't have taken much, just a couple of lies and a bribe. I said no. I said we had to go, because we had a plan and we needed to get out of the country and my – my deadline was coming up. I said _no_." Enjolras looks down at his hand to see that it's shaking.

Feuilly takes his hand, grips it so firmly Enjolras can see his already pale skin go white. It's what he needs; the pain makes him focus, and he clears his throat. "It was for the greater good, of course. But now I know. There is no greater good."

"So, you're doing this to atone for your sins?"

"No," says Enjolras. "It's not about me."

He seems to have passed some kind of test, because Feuilly lets go of his hand, and goes back to his backpack. Enjolras realises that he's managed to spill a whole lot of information about himself, and he still knows nothing about Feuilly. "What about you?"

"I do what you do," says Feuilly. "Just quieter." Feuilly pulls a book out of his backpack, and hands it to Enjolras.

"Harry Potter...?"

"Books," says Feuilly. "Almost everyone has books at home. I'm going to teach you how to kill someone with a book."

–

"You two seem to be bonding," says Grantaire when Enjolras pops into the kitchen area to grab a snack. He's at the kitchen counter on his laptop, a battered, heavy-duty thing that looks like it could stop a bullet, and there are three empty mugs and half a bottle of whiskey sitting next to him.

Enjolras grabs a chocolate bar, and joins him at the counter. "Were you eavesdropping?"

"It's an open plan house," says Grantaire, raising an eyebrow.

"True." Enjolras's arms ache, because there's the self-defence lessons and the assassination lessons and the shooting lessons and now, apparently, there are lessons in using household objects as weapons. He massages his arm as he leans in, and lowers his voice. "You trust him, right?"

Grantaire looks surprised. "I – yes."

"Alright." Enjolras makes to leave, but Grantaire catches him by the wrist.

"What if I had said no?"

Enjolras frowns. "He's been following my work for years. He's been tracking my internet movements since before I called you in. He can kill people with just about anything in a room. If you don't trust him, I'd be very fucking scared, Grantaire. Should I be?"

"No," says Grantaire. He shakes his head, like he's trying to shake a thought out of his mind. "It was hypothetical. Feuilly is great. Very trustworthy if he decides you're worth it. I'm quite impressed you're letting him stay just on my recommendation."

"Well," Enjolras says. "Your recommendation... _and_ his admiration for my work." He means it as a joke, but Grantaire lets go of his wrist and frowns.

" _I_ admire your work."

Enjolras laughs in surprise before he can help it. "No, you don't. You think I'm a slightly stupid idealist who's going to get himself killed."

–

Combeferre looks the girl in front of him up and down. "You look expensive," he says.

"Do I?"

Combeferre narrows his eyes and stalks toward her. She sinks in on herself, one shoulder hunching upwards as her spine bends. Her eyes drop to somewhere around Combeferre's shoes, and sneak nervous dances around the room. It's just the spare downstairs room, where they store old computers and case files, with a narrow bed shoved in there for whoever wants to stay over. She scuffs her feet and stills when Combeferre reaches one hand out toward her, as if she wants to flinch but to flinch would be even worse than letting him touch her.

"Better," he says. "But there's still something –"

It's perfect, to Enjolras, but that would be why Combeferre is overseeing this; he notices little details that are meaningless to Enjolras. Combeferre pulls her hair out of the high, swept back ponytail and lets it fall to frame her face. It's long and thick, and he tousles it until it falls over one shoulder. "That's it."

"I don't like having my hair down."

"But the men will." Combeferre steps back, and purses his lips. "I think you're ready, Éponine. Remember the cringing."

"Yeah." She straightens up once again, no longer looking cowed, and tosses the hair out of her face. "I'll see you on the other side."

Enjolras has a thousand things he want to say to her, but he can't stop Éponine from doing this if she wants to, and they could really use the help. "Good luck," he says instead, and hovers as Combeferre folds her into a short, fierce hug. It takes a long moment, but finally, she pats him, twice, on the back.

–

The plan involves waiting. Enjolras hates waiting. More people could die in the time he spends _waiting_.

"I think I'm going to take another job," says Grantaire, two days in, when Enjolras walks past him towards the kitchen. Enjolras pauses. Carries on past him to the kitchen, because he needs a cup of coffee before he can deal with this conversation this early in the morning.

Grantaire is still sitting on the sofa in just his underwear with his laptop balanced across his knees when he gets back. Enjolras sinks into an armchair and tucks his feet up into it. "What were you saying?"

"I think I'm going to take another job," says Grantaire. "Something local, of course. I wouldn't leave you hanging."

"No," says Enjolras. "We need you here."

Grantaire drums his fingers on a cushion, and it occurs to Enjolras that Grantaire already knew he would say that. "We've got days, perhaps weeks before Éponine manages to infiltrate, longer for her to get enough information for us to act on it. We'll go stir-crazy if we just sit around doing nothing."

"And your solution is to go and kill people?" asks Enjolras incredulously.

"And get paid an extortionate amount of money for it, yes," says Grantaire.

Enjolras scowls. "You're the one who refused payment in cash. And then you asked for – and you're not even cashing it in."

Grantaire looks amused. "I _really_ just said that to fuck with you. Will you please let it go? I wasn't expecting you to say yes, you know. Besides, I like my sex to be–" he waves a hand ambiguously. "Fun."

Enjolras copies him and wafts his hand back rather skeptically.

"Shut up, you. You know what I mean," says Grantaire, grinning. "Anyway. That's not what I mean. Everyone quit their day jobs, didn't they? You're all living off savings, and at some point that's going to run out. Someone needs to bring in the bacon in this family."

"The bacon," echoes Enjolras. Grantaire just gives him a look, and he concedes the point. "You're right, I'm sorry."

"I don't think it'll be anything big. A few days, a week tops. You could come with me," says Grantaire so casually that Enjolras could almost, _almost_ believe it to be a throwaway statement.

"You want me to go with you," says Enjolras.

"Yeah," says Grantaire carefully. "Give you a little experience."

"A little experience," says Enjolras, "A little experience _killing people_ ?"

"They're not exactly good people," says Grantaire. "Just because I do it for money and not for justice doesn't mean that when they're dead the world isn't probably better off for it."

Enjolras takes the time to slowly finish his coffee and let his brain stew on that for a bit. He studies Grantaire, who is determinedly not looking at him, and lets his eyes wander as they will. He absently notices that Grantaire has a few more scars than the time they had worked together. He's seen Grantaire without a top on recently, but, well. He'd been trying to not look then. They make him look older, more experienced, when Enjolras knows Grantaire has only a couple of years on him. Not for the first time, he wonders how Grantaire started out on this path.

"I could stop," says Grantaire suddenly, and Enjolras blinks, suddenly realising that he's been staring. "Killing people. If you asked." It's his turn to watch Enjolras.

It's a strange thing to say, something Enjolras could never have anticipated. "No," he says, startled. "No. I wouldn't ask you to."

"I know." Grantaire smiles.

"Isn't it risky," asks Enjolras, already flipping through the pages. "Taking a job right here in Paris?"

"People die in Paris all the time," says Grantaire, not unkindly. "No one cares. Look through the file. Think about it. There's no rush. The client doesn't mind when it happens, just that it does."

Enjolras goes to Combeferre, of course. "The problem is," Enjolras explains when Combeferre's done reading, "that even if I turn it down, even if I say no, I'll always know that I considered it. I considered saying yes. That already tells me all I need to know about the shape of my morality, doesn't it?"

"Your morality is not a shape," says Combeferre, lips quirked upwards in amusement. That's what Combeferre looks like when he thinks Enjolras is being overly dramatic, but he's being too nice to point it out. Enjolras groans. He hates that look.

"Your morality is not a triangle, or a square, Enjolras, it's not that simple. I think Grantaire's right. We're going to see a lot of violence, and we need to survive it so we can help the people at the end. This isn't a public awareness campaign; there is no happy ending if we die first, here."

"But?" Enjolras knows Combeferre too well – it's unlike him to argue one side of an argument without entertaining the other. He's not like Enjolras, who is led entirely by his gut feeling.

"But, Enjolras. Killing people is wrong." Combeferre's smile is wry, and Enjolras laughs in surprise.

"Well, yes. Yes, it is." They both lean back in their chairs, and Enjolras savours the hot sip of coffee that goes down his throat, warming his entire body as it goes. He's been alternating the last few days, caught between debating morality with himself over and over on a loop, and trying desperately not to think about it at all. Doing it with Combeferre is an entirely different experience, because he doesn't let Enjolras kid himself but he also doesn't let Enjolras beat himself up about it.

"You think I should do this," says Enjolras, his voice lilting upwards into a question.

Combeferre sobers. "I think... I think that if _you_ think that by refusing this job it will atone for what you did last time, you're wrong. I think you will hate yourself if you take the job, and regret it if you don't."

"Please, don't mince your words on my account," says Enjolras dryly. It is true though. It is startling, sometimes, how well Combeferre knows him, but at the moment, it seems to be a comfort. "I'm not looking for – forgiveness."

Combeferre places a hand over Enjolras's own, and Enjolras looks up from the piece of paper he's reading in confusion. " _I_ forgive you," says Combeferre.

"Thank you," Enjolras says in surprise. It feels strangely spiritual, like going to a confession. Perhaps it's because Enjolras places his trust not in God, but in his friends to get things done.

Combeferre pulls his hand back, stirs at the dregs of his coffee. Enjolras notices, for the first time, the knife sheath at his waist. "You know that I don't deny that with certain people dead, a whole many more would be safe, but. It doesn't have to be us – or you specifically who does it. Grantaire is happy to take on that role." And those are the words that convince Enjolras really.

"...Yes, it does," he says quietly. Combeferre already knows that it does.

Combeferre raises his mug, and they clink them together. "Yes, it does."

Courfeyrac is the next port of call, even if he is only in the next room over. Enjolras finds him sprawled across Jehan on the sofa as they talk softly. Courf sits up when he sees Enjolras, and Jehan glances between the two of them.

"I'll just be upstairs," he says, unfolding himself from under Courf's legs.

Enjolras waves him back. "No, wait, please. I could get your perspective on this too."

He puts the file out in front of them, spreads out the information. Courf raises an eyebrow. "This is not a nice person."

"I know," says Enjolras. "But. I don't want to do it for selfish reasons."

Courfeyrac snorts. "You are one of the least selfish people I know."

Enjolras... disagrees. Especially coming from Courfeyrac, who is far better with that sort of thing than he is. Courf waggles a finger at him like he knows what Enjolras is thinking. "You think for the forest. The continent. The Earth."

"What?"

"And sometimes you forget to see the trees for the continent, but that doesn't mean you aren't considering them. Me, I'm a tree-people. I can't deal with thinking about bigger things," says Courfeyrac.

"That's a terrible analogy," says Enjolras. "Also, completely untrue. You know you're not like that."

"Don't be silly," says Courfeyrac airily, waving the air as if to dissipate his argument. "As if I would be modest. Ha!"

Enjolras snorts, and shakes his head in amusement. Courfeyrac never fails to show him a new perspective. "You think I should do it?"

"I think you've already decided and you feel a bit shit about it."

"Yeah," admits Enjolras. Courfeyrac climbs off the sofa and onto the armchair with Enjolras, and smothers him with a hug.

It's not until now that Enjolras realises that his friends have changed. He knows, logically, that he has too, but it's different, seeing it come tumbling out in bits and pieces that take him longer than it ought to piece together. Maybe it's because he's been trying not to see it. He hugs Courfeyrac back, tightly, trying to offer a little comfort of his own.

Jehan has been skimming the information in the meantime, and finally tucks a long strand of hair behind one ear. "It's about whether you want to pull the trigger, if you want to be the bullet. Or if you want it to happen but would prefer not to know the details."

Enjolras watches him. He doesn't know Jehan very well, but he trusts Combeferre's judgement, and Courfeyrac's judgement, and Grantaire's judgement. He thinks he wouldn't understand Jehan very well even if they spent more time together, but it occurs to him that perhaps he should do it anyway.

Jehan watches him right back. "I think, Enjolras, that you are the kind of person who likes very much to be the bullet."

–

Killing people is actually prefaced with a lot of surveillance. Two hours in, and Enjolras is _bored_. His eyes are watering from the binoculars and he's acutely aware of every time he fidgets next to Grantaire, who might well be a statue.

The buildings in this area are _nice_ , which means that even the service stairwells, like the one they're in, are clean, but still. It's the only reasonably secluded place with windows that still faces the mark's apartment, and had taken Grantaire a mere twenty minutes to break in.

"How long are we going to wait?" asks Enjolras.

Grantaire hums. "It's getting late, so he's probably settled in for the night now. We can tail him home from work tomorrow and do it then."

"What?" Enjolras is confused. "I thought you'd just shoot him tonight."

"We're not going to shoot him," says Grantaire, surprised. "That would definitely be weird. How many shootings do you hear of in Paris?"

"Then," says Enjolras, nonplussed and gestures to the gun, "Why are you..."

Grantaire pats his hip. "Just in case. Sniper at heart, you know. I feel more secure with one of these near me. This whole thing is actually more up Jehan's alley, but I know he's cutting down on jobs for Combeferre and Courfeyrac."

Enjolras tucks away that last tidbit to mull over later. He had envisioned this being a very detached sort of job, the sort Grantaire usually takes. A couple of shots from afar and being long gone by the time it's discovered. But then, they're not in Russia any more. "Then what are we going to do?"

"Make it look natural. A suicide, or a mugging gone wrong. The sort of thing that people gloss over in the newspapers. 'Oh, what a shame that happened', that sort of thing." Grantaire sounds like he's done this before.

Enjolras nods slowly. A couple of floors above them, a door creaks open and footsteps start clattering down the concrete steps. Grantaire snatches their binoculars and shoves them in his enormous pockets; heart pounding, Enjolras grabs the front of Grantaire's shirt and smashes their mouths together. He can see the shock in Grantaire's eyes but he knows to go with the flow; he pulls Enjolras in by the waist.

Enjolras shoves his tongue into Grantaire's mouth. His body remembers what this felt like last time and it approves. There's a low groan, and he realises vaguely that it's coming from him; he can feel Grantaire's hands fisting in the material at his back. They are well and truly making out by the time the footsteps trickle to a pause near them.

They break apart as if caught, and both look toward the startled cleaning staff holding a broom. "Sorry," laughs Grantaire breathlessly as they shuffle out of her way. "Just a little courage before I go in to meet the in-laws. I'm not really their _type_."

The cleaning lady snorts, and moves past them. When the door has swung shut, Enjolras slumps against the wall. "God," he says.

"I know," says Grantaire, releasing him carefully and laughing shakily. He doesn't quite meet Enjolras's eyes.

Enjolras raises his hand to feel the stubble rash already forming. Grantaire makes to head out – they already have a plan of action after all; there's no point to staying here – but Enjolras grabs his elbow. "Grantaire," he says. Pauses for a moment. "I'm not going to apologise," he says fiercely.

He knows from the way Grantaire grins at him that he's remembered and gets the reference. "Good."

–

They are hunkered down in a rented car outside the mark's workplace the next evening, waiting for him to emerge; he leaves a full hour later than the previous day, and instead of driving home, he heads in the opposite direction.

They follow him as far as far as the opera house - though technically, they don't even make it that far, because Grantaire only stays for long enough to check that their mark doesn't have a date. "So he's most likely going home alone," he explains. "Come on, I saw an Italian place just down the road, let's grab some food. Opera's going to last for ages."

Enjolras feels like everyone can see that they're planning something; he feels as if he's got 'murderer' stamped across his forehead and it's making him so twitchy that people probably are legitimately staring at him now, but Grantaire smooths it over. He orders for the both of them, twirls spaghetti around his fork and tucks it into Enjolras's mouth.

"What the fuck," splutters Enjolras when he's finished chewing.

"People think we're a couple," says Grantaire, and steals some of Enjolras's risotto. Right, thinks Enjolras. Right. That would actually explain the staring.

"How do you do this?" asks Enjolras, his voice low. "The... the pre-meditation?" Killing Montparnasse was entirely different. He'd known he was going to, of course, but he hadn't planned it down to the last detail. It had just _happened_.

Grantaire takes his time swallowing his mouthful of food before he answers. "That guy. Félix. He and his friends like to seduce women. Have fun, party around. Nothing wrong with that, everyone likes a bit of fun. And then he takes everything they own, and runs. He leaves his victims destitute. And heartbroken."

Enjolras nods. He remembers that from the dossier.

"Focus on that. Focus on why you're doing it."

Enjolras helps himself to more of Grantaire's spaghetti. "But you do it for the money."

Grantaire shrugs. "Doesn't mean I can't still think about what rat bastards they are." It helps, Enjolras admits.

"Your food is good," says Enjolras, in what is likely the least subtle change in subject ever.

"Here," says Grantaire, loading his fork up with spaghetti, and holding it out for Enjolras. Enjolras blinks in surprise, and then obediently opens his mouth, letting Grantaire slide it in for him. He watches Grantaire as he eats, sees the half-fond, half-regretful smile on his face.

"We should do this again," says Enjolras, once he's finished chewing.

"'This'?" asks Grantaire, tilting his head.

Enjolras swallows, looks up from under his eyelashes, and goes for it. "Dinner. Sharing Italian food. Maybe some nice wine, and – and maybe a different ending to the evening than the one we've got planned for tonight."

That startles a grin out from Grantaire. It simmers quickly though, settling into an expression of contemplation. Enjolras puts his hand on the table; he means it to cover Grantaire's hand but he kind of chickens out at the last moment and misses, instead half overlapping their fingertips together.

He wishes abjectly his palm weren't so sweaty. In hindsight, he should have wiped it across his trousers first.

Enjolras dares to look up at Grantaire, and it's to see Grantaire looking back at him with a painfully neutral expression, at which point he realises that Grantaire still doesn't understand that he's being serious, probably because – well. Enjolras doesn't know. He's always thought he's been fairly obvious, just not in the same way Grantaire is.

"That sounds nice," says Grantaire finally, and Enjolras's stomach drops, because that kind of tone is used in conjunction with things like 'that sounds nice but I'd rather stab my eyes out with forks', surely. "But you might not want to after tonight," says Grantaire, smiling sadly. "Are you done? I'll get the bill."

He flees – there is no better word for it – and Enjolras frowns, still wondering what Grantaire means when they head back out into the darkened evening.

The rest of the plan goes perfectly. Enjolras pretends that Félix has dropped something when he's walking from his car, and when he walks back out of the safety of the street light, Grantaire slides out of the shadows with a knife, entirely covered in black. He strikes the killing blow first, and Félix's hands fly up and try to grapple with Grantaire but Grantaire is a professional. His stab was deadly accurate and right between the third and fourth ribs, and he only lets Félix flounder a bit for the sake of giving him defensive wounds. He's already a dead man walking. Grantaire yanks his knife out and stabs Félix a few more times at random, and then catches his body before it topples to the ground. They drag it partially into the alleyway, and make their disappearance.

Grantaire expertly peels the layers off: the jacket, the gloves, the balaclava, the shoes, the tearaway trousers that Grantaire apparently got off a male stripper in Amsterdam (Enjolras still isn't sure whether to believe him) all drop with a wet squelch into the black bin bag that Enjolras holds open for him. Underneath, Grantaire's just in a shirt and skinny jeans and he toes on his usual boots that he left in the rental car.

Once they're back in the car and driving away, Enjolras notices the jittering. It starts with his leg, something that happens when he's stressed anyway, and then he's drumming his fingers on his leg and by the time he notices, a laugh spills out of his mouth in gasped breaths and just won't stop.

"Enjolras," says Grantaire, glancing away from the road. He goes to place a hand on Enjolras but Enjolras shakes his head.

"I'm all right," he says, and he's aware he sounds a little tinny. "I just. We just _killed a man_ ," he says. "In cold blood. Grantaire, shit, how do you _do this_ ? I kept thinking – someone will see, or someone will walk past or the police are going to figure out we did it. I've watched crime shows on tv, Grantaire. They'll match the DNA you left there, or the shape of your knife, someone will have witnessed us. God, Grantaire. We just killed someone, we're not going to get away with that."

Grantaire takes the corner slowly, and he takes to long to reply that Enjolras half thinks that he wasn't listening. "Are you worried about getting caught by the police?" he asks eventually, and that might seem like an odd question but Enjolras laughs because he knows it means that Grantaire listened to more than the words coming out of his mouth.

"No," says Enjolras. "I suppose not. Are you?"

"No," says Grantaire. "I'm not worried because I know we won't get caught. Why are you not worried?"

"Because," says Enjolras. The plastic bin bag with Grantaire's blood soaked clothes rustles on his lap. "Because, fuck the police. If they try and catch us, you'll just throw them off the scent. Or get us some forged passports and flee the country. Or just kill them. Yeah, you'd probably do that for me, wouldn't you? You'd just kill them."

"If that's what you wanted," says Grantaire evenly.

They don't talk for the rest of the journey home; the car is silent apart from the occasional outburst of Enjolras's muffled, hysterical laughter. After Grantaire drives the car into the driveway, he shuts off the engine and finally looks over at Enjolras properly.

"I'm fine," says Enjolras automatically, heading the conversation off before Grantaire can even start it. "I'm fine. What are you going to do with these?"

"Throw them in the wash, probably," says Grantaire, and somehow that seems hilarious, just fucking _hilarious_ to Enjolras and he erupts into giggles.

"We just got paid – we just got paid 50,000 euros to kill a man, Grantaire. I think you can afford a new balaclava."

If it weren't for Grantaire, who opens the car door for him and half carries him up to his room, Enjolras is pretty sure he would have stayed there all night. In the time between Grantaire wrestling the door open and then easing him gently down onto his bed, Enjolras realises that he's stopped laughing and started crying instead.

He loses track of when Grantaire folds the duvet around his shoulders, the time fuzzy in his head until he's braced against Grantaire's shoulder as Grantaire rocks him. "I don't know why I'm reacting like this," says Enjolras numbly. "I didn't even flinch before I killed Montparnasse."

"It sneaks up on you," says Grantaire, the voice of experience.

"You sound like you were expecting this to happen." That's a little upsetting, because some warning would have been nice. Enjolras feels Grantaire shrug more than he actually sees it.

"It's different for everyone. I just didn't know whether you'd explode and take out half the neighbourhood with you, or implode and turn yourself into a vegetable."

Enjolras laughs under his breath, but it dies out quickly on his lips. "And? Are you sufficiently satisfied?" He doesn't understand; he's starting to wonder if this entire job was a convoluted sort of test for him.

Grantaire slides off the bed, dropping to his knees in front of Enjolras. Enjolras just blinks down at him as Grantaire takes his hands in his. "You are the most compassionate person I know. It baffles me, and I'm not going to pretend I understand how that's possible even after all the shit you've seen, but I knew that you weren't going to be the one to pull the trigger on a man and get away from it without feeling _anything_."

"I don't regret it," says Enjolras, and it feels more real now he's said it out loud. "I feel awful, but I don't – I don't regret killing Montparnasse. Does that make me a bad person? How can I not regret it?"

"Because he was a person who chose to sell people for a living. Innocent people."

"You _kill_ people for a living."

"I hardly kill saints, Enjolras. I don't kill innocent people."

Enjolras doesn't say anything after that, just mulls it over as he stares down at Grantaire's hands, dark and firm and steady next to his. "I'm tired," he says finally. "I'm just tired. I'll see you tomorrow."

He's not kidding Grantaire, he knows, but he's taking advantage of the fact that Grantaire doesn't push, not when it comes to these things. Grantaire squeezes his hands once, firmly, and stands. "Good night."

He turns the lights off on his way out, and their moment is over. Enjolras stays there, perched on the end of his bed, huddled in his duvet, until exhaustion overtakes him.

–

Grantaire wakes him in the middle of the night. Enjolras wakes in a confused haze, caught in a dream that slips away from him like water in a sieve. All he knows is that his heart is pounding, and his skin is covered in a sheen of cold sweat, making him shiver as soon as he sits up and bats away the smothering cover.

"Enjolras," says Grantaire in a low voice. "You were screaming in your sleep."

Enjolras's breaths hang in the air for a moment, heavy and loud and panicked. "Sorry," he says eventually, once he's properly awoken. "Sorry, I – It's nothing."

Grantaire doesn't believe him, not for a single second, but he doesn't push and for that Enjolras is too grateful. "Alright. Get some more sleep. There's a couple of hours to go before sunlight." He stays until Enjolras rearranges himself on the bed and the lure of sleep starts to suck him back in again. As he drifts off, Enjolras feels the ghost of something over his forehead, but he can't quite tell if it's fingers through his hair, or lips.

When he heads down the next morning, there's the usual pot of coffee waiting for him, Grantaire's hanging upside down off the sofa and typing away on his laptop; the bag of bloody, black clothes is nowhere to be seen. Enjolras floats through his morning routine like he's not entirely attached to his body, only just realises that the scalding mug is turning his palm too red before he pulls away because the pain doesn't quite register in this mind. He notices Grantaire noticing, but they're both very good at pretending that nothing's wrong.

–

Éponine gets in touch. It's a weak signal from a gutted mobile phone, the most amount of technology they could risk sending her in with, but Combeferre locks onto it the moment it starts relaying. "Everyone. We have contact."

"Where is she?" asks Courfeyrac, swivelling around in his chair.

"9th arondissemont," says Combeferre.

"Clubbing district." He shakes his head at the sheer audacity of it. The signal disappears again and Combeferre frowns at the screen as if that'll bring it back, but it doesn't.

"Drunk people who're willing to pay," says Enjolras quietly. "Should we move now, or wait until it's dark? We'll have more cover if it's dark, but–"

"We never know what we might be too late for," says Courfeyrac, nodding as he finishes the sentence. Bossuet looks vaguely sick at the thought.

"She might have only got in touch now because it was a good opportunity," says Feuilly thoughtfully. "We should scope it out now, but if it looks like we can wait until tonight, we should." A murmur of agreement ripples around the group, and they get assembled in silence.

This particular area of the 9th is mostly deserted in the daytime; people don't live here if they can avoid it, since it would be impossible to sleep through the noise at night, and the only people around are people passing through, or delivery people with their crates of alcohol to stock the clubs and bars. Grantaire steals a bottle straight out of the back of a van when the driver isn't around, and Enjolras grits his teeth.

They just passing by the building, Grantaire with casual suit on and looking like he's just passing through, and Enjolras in a pair of ratty sweatpants and a baseball cap. It's the absolute opposite of what anyone looking for either of them would be looking for. The address Éponine had given is a small sliver of a terraced building, with a tacky bar with neon lights scrawled across the windows, and a smaller establishment that just has arrows pointing down a set of narrow stairs on either side.

Between the two, there is barely enough room for a door, and it's locked and padlocked. It'll be difficult getting in without being seen, tonight.

Enjolras slouches past Grantaire, who's stopped to buy a newspaper from a small shop. Each of them walk past, commit the area to memory, and carry on. The others are doing much the same thing from all different directions, planting cameras to record footage from different angles. There's a smaller road that runs behind the building, and other next few hours, Feuilly, Jehan and Bahorel will be sidling through, trying to see if there are any different entry points, or an easy way of doing this.

"The address is split into two," says Bossuet. "The upstairs belongs to the same person who owns the bar and the wall's been knocked through to make the dancefloor bigger. The downstairs flat comprises of a basement floor. Let's assume that's what we're looking for."

Night comes, too quickly, and far too much of their plan is to wing it as it comes, which makes Enjolras uncomfortable. He shrugs on a leather jacket over his t-shirt, pathetically glad that it's socially acceptable for men to wear almost anything when clubbing, and lets Grantaire arm him. A knife goes in at the waistband, far round enough that the jacket will hide the hilt, and the gun goes under the shoulder. A couple of extra clip of bullets gets dropped into his pocket, and the last thing is a simple penknife, for last resorts.

Grantaire, on the other hand, is armed to the teeth, and is busy making sure that he doesn't actually clank when he walks. Enjolras looks round at them all. Bahorel and Feuilly are helping everyone else arm up too, even Combeferre who's going to sit in the van and take care of the camera footage, and it feels a far cry from their usual activities.

They all take different cars in to the district when it's dark and the streets have started to fill up with the raucous noise of the drunk and uncaring. Enjolras drives, and when he looks over, Grantaire is taking a sip from his hip flask. He purses his mouth instead of asking, 'must you?' because he had promised to, but Grantaire gives him a tight smile anyway.

"We could all die tonight," says Grantaire.

"Or," says Courfeyrac, "we could not. I vote not."

The plan isn't too complicated. Éponine was to signal them when she found where the children were being kept, and when she thought they had a chance of getting them out alive. If this cramped building with only one entrance is it, then that was her call. Joly is parked opposite in a boring white van that looks like any number of the ones they saw delivering supplies today, engine on and ready to move out at any time. Courfeyrac, Bossuet and Bahorel gather outside the bar, pretending to be drunk, laughing and swearing.

"Isn't that going to draw attention to us and not away from us?" asks Joly.

Grantaire shakes his head. "No one likes to look at drunk people. We're a public disgrace. No one likes to stop and watch someone throwing up."

And that's exactly what Courfeyrac does. It's not real, or at least Enjolras hopes it isn't real, but it looks awful. Behind them, Feuilly uses the retching noise to cover the sound of the cutters as he snips through the padlock and Jehan picks the lock. They slide into the darkness first, the battered door swallowing them up for Enjolras to follow. The corridor that appears behind the door smells musty, and the stairs that go down are creaky.

Somehow, Jehan manages to make minimal noise and they form a line, each person pointing out creaky spots to avoid to the next. The door at the bottom appears to be chained closed, but Feuilly picks the lock and he and Jehan slither the chains free slowly.

"Who's there?" A voice snaps at them as Jehan eases the door open, and then Enjolras feels the whistle of air past his ear before he even hears the tiny burst from the silencer. Jehan whips a hand out and grabs the body around the throat before it can crumple to the ground, leaving the door to swing open freely.

From the light inside, Enjolras can see the bullet hole dead in the centre of the man's forehead, and turns around. At the top of the stairs is Grantaire, gun out. "Rear guard," he says quietly. "Go on, I've got your back."

Jehan lowers the body to the ground, and steps around it, eyes darting to either side, assessing the layout. There's a hallway running across, one end leading to a room with an opened door and the sound of a TV on beyond it, and the other to two closed doors. Jehan pads towards the opened one first, and Enjolras keeps an eye on the other end in case

From behind him, he hears: "Hey, boss, was that –" and another two _fwips_ of silenced shots.

"Clear," says Jehan in a low voice. He closes the door behind him, muffling the TV that's still on, and all of Enjolras's concentration boils down to the two remaining doors. Above them, the _thump-thump_ of music bass vibrates the ceiling and rumbles right down the walls, and Enjolras thinks he can hear his heart beat syncing up with the beat as it gets faster and faster, waiting for Feuilly to pick the lock.

The first door is an anticlimax. It's a bathroom. Of course. Enjolras stands in the doorway, because that gives Jehan more room to manoeuvre, and Feuilly is _just_ reaching out for the last remaining door when it clicks open.

"Took you fucking long enough!"

Enjolras swears as his finger twitches on the trigger; the door opens to reveal a kid, scowling up at them. All three of them hastily point their guns away, and Enjolras lets out an explosive breath as he realises he almost just shot a child in the face.

"Éponine says hi."

"Éponine – what the fuck."

The boy squints at him. "I'm her inside man, Gavroche. She did tell you about me, right?"

"But," splutters Enjolras, "you're an actual _child_."

The boy looks at him like he's being a bit thick right now. "Who the fuck else are you going to get to infiltrate a child slavery ring?"

"But, you – Should you be swearing?" asks Enjolras faintly.

"Should you be wasting my time?" retorts Gavroche. "Are you fucking rescuing us or not?"

"Of course," says Feuilly, stepping in before Enjolras can embarrass himself again. "Jehan, if you'll go first? And Enjolras and I can take the back."

Enjolras counts twenty-two kids who file out behind them, some clutching the shirt of the child in front. _Twenty-two_ , God, they're barely going to fit them all in the van, and it's hardly going to look discreet, shuffling twenty odd kids into a van in the small hours of the night.

"Where's Éponine?" he asks. He looks around the room the kids were kept in but it's filthy and it smells disgusting and the light doesn't work. _And_ it's evident that Éponine isn't here.

"She got herself sold," said Gavroche, who stayed behind to make sure all the kids got out.

" _What._ "

Gavroche shrugs dismissively. "It was deliberate. She said she had unfinished business. Don't worry about her, she can take care of herself."

Enjolras doesn't really know what to say to that, so he just doesn't. He's the last one out of the basement, and by then the bouncer of the bar is giving them all some _very_ odd looks so Enjolras just hurries to the van and lets Joly drive them away.

–

"We could finish this now," says Combeferre quietly, when he goes to grab a cup of tea and finds Enjolras at the counter, staring at the coffeemaker.

"What?" Enjolras jerks around.

"We could be done.We rescued the kids, Enjolras, isn't that what we wanted to do? We're sorting them out, sending the ones who still have parents back, and forging social welfare paperwork for those who don't."

"Rescuing the kids wasn't what we wanted to do," says Enjolras. He's tired, so tired. He'd managed to snatch a few hours of sleep last night but it was hardly restful after realising that he was keeping twenty-two kids in his downstairs. True, they're keeping the kids safe, they're not going to get sold off, but. Still. He does not fail to see the similarities.

"Isn't it?" Combeferre huddles over his hot mug of tea, and Enjolras sees the way he relaxes into the steam, lets his game face evaporate and show how tired he is. He's been typing non-stop, making profiles and reports for the dozen or so kids who don't have homes to go back to, trying to find group homes with space to take them on and figure out the right paperwork to get them transferred there.

"No," says Enjolras. "I wish we could stop now, but... we can't. They'll just disappear for a while, do it again somewhere else. We've got to stop the permanently. You know that."

"Yeah," says Combeferre. "I just wish –" He shakes his head. "Never mind. I know there isn't another way."

"I wish there was too," says Enjolras softly.

It takes another two days. Another two days of scared, frightened children flinching away – and he can hardly blame them. Of eerie stares and too silent looks of judgement as the kids try to make up their mind whether to trust another stranger or not. Thank God for Gavroche, who keeps up a lively pitter-patter and shows them that Les Amis are nothing to be afraid of.

The numbers dwindle as they get in touch with parents, and find places, and when the last one is gone, Enjolras could weep with relief.

"I wonder where Éponine is," says Bahorel, as they all slump in the war chamber, drained and relieved and dreading having to get back up and start all over again on the hunt for Patron-Minette.

"She'll get in touch," says Gavroche, who doesn't seem inclined to leave, and won't tell Enjolras where he lives. "Éponine, she's got her ways."

"I hope so," says Grantaire. "They're going to clear out fast now they haven't got kids to worry about dragging behind them."

It's Combeferre who turns something up first. "Enjolras," he says, waving him over to his preferred computer. "Come here for a second?"

"What?"

"Remember that thing Éponine told us? To look into the Thénardiers?"

Enjolras nods. "Yeah, what did you find?"

"Not much," says Combeferre, his voice still low so as to not alert the others. "They have a number of arrests for petty crimes, burglary, theft, that sort of thing. They've never been arrested for anything bigger, but they have been associated with running a gang with Montparnasse so it could well be that they are the ringleaders of Patron-Minette. And, here's the thing, Enjolras." Combeferre doesn't say anything, just lets it load up on the screen.

"They're Éponine's _parents_ ?"

Combeferre nods. "I checked it out. It came up in birth records, and then a year later in infant baptism records, and then in public school enrollments. The age fits. Enjolras, what do we do?"

"I don't know," says Enjolras, numb all over. "I – I don't know. Keep digging, see if you can find more. Don't tell the others, not yet. We need to think about this. "

Combeferre pauses.

"I mean," says Enjolras. "Courfeyrac, of course. Jehan by extension. I don't mean for you to keep secrets."

–

Grantaire knows, instantly. He's far too sharp to not notice when Enjolras is behaving oddly, but Enjolras is too tired to deal with being treated like glass right now, so he just... ignores it. He sees the sidelong glances Grantaire sends him when they eat together, and the aborted movements towards a friendly shoulder grasp or hug, and he doesn't say anything. Neither does Grantaire.

"I'm going to bed," says Enjolras. It's only 8 o'clock.

"Sure," says Grantaire cautiously, then adds, "I'll be out here. If you need me."

Enjolras nods, and that's the only acknowledgement they've made all day that Enjolras has been acting weird. Enjolras stays in the shower for longer than usual, wishing he could just drown the confusion and wash it all away and he could come out of the shower knowing exactly what to do. But he doesn't. He just sinks into his bed, and wonders if he's led all of his friends into danger by trusting someone he shouldn't have.

Three hours later, Enjolras has tried every position he can think of to sleep in, and he's still wondering the same thing. He hears a quiet noise outside, of Grantaire doing the washing up, and suddenly anger courses through him. He staggers out of bed.

"Did you know?" Enjolras asks, flinging open the door.

Grantaire starts, drops his mug and reaches for his gun on instinct. "What the fuck, Enjolras. Did I know what?"

"About Éponine's family."

Grantaire eases his hands away from his waist and finishes rinsing off the mug. "If you mean Gavroche, then yeah."

"What?"

"Gavroche?" Grantaire gives him an odd look, turns the tap off and slowly wipes his hands dry. "Enjolras, what's going on?"

"No, don't distract me," demands Enjolras. "What about Gavroche?"

"He's her brother."

Enjolras swears, and Grantaire frowns, lays his hands flat on the table counter and somewhere in the back of his mind, Enjolras is aware that Grantaire's trying to show himself as vulnerable, open. It just annoys him.

"No. Well, that's another thing I didn't know about her. How do you know you can trust her?"

Grantaire looks confused, and that's a good thing. It means he really didn't know. "Is there a problem? I know you're new to this, but when criminals work with other criminals, we don't tend to talk to each other about our _families_."

"But you trust her," says Enjolras flatly. "Why do you trust her?"

Grantaire shakes his head. "I was on a job, she helped me out. She needed help on a different job, I helped her out. It's a mutual thing, she's never let me down. It's... It's the same reason I trust _you_."

"You trust me because you think I'm pretty, and too stupid to ever fool you," snarls Enjolras.

Grantaire's face shuts down, and when he ducks behind the counter, Enjolras thinks for a brief, terrifying second that Grantaire is going for a weapon. He re-emerges with a bottle of wine.

"I cannot fucking deal with this right now," says Grantaire, scraping viciously at the foil with a knife, yanking the cork out and drinking straight from the bottle. He walks out from behind the counter and holds a hand up warningly as if to fend Enjolras off as he stalks to his room. "Whatever fucking mood you are in, Enjolras, do not take it out on me."

–

Enjolras turns up for his daily knife session with Grantaire at the usual time, and the air practically crackles between them. Enjolras doesn't quite know how to apologise, especially since he still doesn't know what to think of Éponine, and Grantaire looks like he hasn't slept. Both of them are a little more tense than usual; Enjolras can feel the force of Grantaire's arm against his as he tries to grapple the knife out of his hands and when he strikes back, he slices closer than he ought to.

Grantaire pulls back, and examines the new slash in his t-shirt. Enjolras tries, wills the word 'sorry' to form in his mouth, but before he can get there, Grantaire just nods curtly. "Not bad." On any other day, that would be high praise.

They finish early – it doesn't feel right for them to be sparring without the verbal banter too – and even though they've only been at it for half an hour, Enjolras's shoulders are sore and he's sweating all over.

They sit, to stretch out and clean the knives. "I think we should take another job," says Grantaire.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Grantaire shrugs. "No. But you need something to let out that anger."

"I'm not angry," snaps Enjolras, louder than he means to. Grantaire just gives him a withering stare. "I'm… conflicted." says Enjolras.

"To get your confliction out then, whatever," says Grantaire impatiently. "You need to let your frustration out on something completely unrelated to me, to you, to Patron-Minette or, or, to Éponine."

He's right. Enjolras hates admitting that other people are right when he's angry. It feels like losing, and he knows, _logically_ , that that's not what it is, but he can't help what he feels. "Fine," he says.

Grantaire just finishes touching his toes, and then reaches over to grab a file off the armchair. "Here."

–

The SIG Sauer is a gun assigned to all of the National Police. Enjolras has never used one before. The gun sits on the bare brickwork in front of them, silent and accusing. It's not what he imagined when Grantaire said that this job would help with his anger. Enjolras sits, shoulder pressing against Grantaire's as they wait for their mark to leave for work in the cool moments before the sunrise.

Dawn across the rooftops of Paris is beautiful, a slowly spreading light that trickles through the shadows, chasing them away. There's a dust of pink, a peek of blue that bleeds through; the day promises to be fine. Paris is tranquil like this, in a way it rarely is, and Enjolras can't help but be affected, finding his anger easing off his shoulders like someone lifting away a burden.

"You take it," says Grantaire, the first to break the silence and the fragile peace that Enjolras has made with himself. Enjolras looks over at him, and Grantaire tips his chin at the gun.

"What if I miss?"

"There's a second bullet in the gun," says Grantaire. "If you miss, I'll take the second shot." Enjolras stares at the SIG. He's not sure how the safety works, or whether it will recoil more than the handgun Grantaire gave him. He's not experienced enough for this; he doesn't have the accuracy this requires.

He's making excuses for himself.

"It's going to be different, isn't it?" says Enjolras thoughtfully. "To be the one to pull the trigger."

"Exactly." Grantaire has good timing. It's around now that their mark usually comes out of the house, walking towards the nearest metro station just a few minutes away; it means that Enjolras hasn't got too much time to sit there and worry about being the one to take the shot.

He looks down the line of the gun. It feels familiar, at least. They're sitting on a roof, nestled between a satellite dish and some antennas; they're in casual clothing because now the all black outfits would just stand out here, at the cusp of day. Mostly, they're pretending to be early risers, watching the sun rise.

Their mark comes along as planned. Grantaire shifts back to give Enjolras the room to manoeuvre, to aim. Enjolras breathes in. Breathes out. Runs through all the steps Grantaire had taught him. _Centre yourself_ , Grantaire voice says inside his head. _Relax. Aim, and then adjust for movement. Relax again_.

Enjolras tries. He does. He aims, and he can see the mark's head, bobbing slightly as he walks. He's not in a hurry; it ought to be easy. Enjolras's hands tremble. He straightens up, shakes his hand out. Tries again. He's got until the mark reaches the end of the street to get this, and it should be plenty of time. His hands are still shaking, and now Enjolras's nerves are being pushed back by swelling frustration, because they're going to botch this up and it's going to be because of him.

"Relax," says Grantaire quietly, beside him. "Aim." Enjolras points the handgun up, but the target jostles in and out of the sights. Grantaire rustles as he shifts behind Enjolras, until Enjolras can feel the heat of his chest against Enjolras's back, his movements measured so as to not alarm Enjolras. He reaches out, arms sliding along Enjolras's, until Grantaire's hands are at his wrist, reassuring.

"Adjust for movement," whispers Grantaire, his breath warm and wet against Enjolras's ear, and Enjolras does. Lets his weight sink back onto the flat of his feet, relaxing again. He feels his anger – and it's not just anger, he realises now, it's _fear_ that he put all his friends in danger – distill into one small, dense point that seems to lodge itself in his chest, just waiting to burst out of him. He pulls the trigger.

Even the silenced bullet sounds entirely too loud in the still air of the morning, like a crack of thunder to Enjolras's ears. The force of the recoil smacks Enjolras back into Grantaire, and Grantaire clutches at him a moment, helps him steady himself. "You did it," says Grantaire, and when he reaches forward to put the safety back on, Enjolras can see the tiniest smile on his face. Grantaire is proud of him.

"I did," says Enjolras, stunned.

Grantaire plucks the gun out of Enjolras's hands. Enjolras leans forward, staring at the body, crumpled in a heap on the street, thrown against the brick wall of someone's house, as Grantaire packs up their things.

Grantaire was right. He does feel better.

"Enjolras. We need to go."

They tumble across the slippery tiles of the roof until they reach the rope ladder Grantaire had rolled up, kicking it over the edge so they can clamber down to the fire escape that goes from the third floor down. Enjolras starts down the metal stairs first, the sound horrendously loud to his ears though he knows that no one's going to take any notice of it. He feels slow in comparison when Grantaire manages to retrieve the rope ladder and slither down the escape to land next to him. They pad out onto the main road that's just starting to swell up with cars, and slip down into the metro.

–

"Thank you," says Enjolras, when they've got home. He feels strange still, disorientated. He's been up for hours, but it's barely nine am.

"For what?" asks Grantaire. He pulls the SIG out from his hip and drops onto the sofa, sighing as he does so.

"For always knowing how to make me feel better," says Enjolras.

Grantaire shakes his head. "Trust me, it's in my best interests that you aren't trying to pick fights."

Enjolras leans forward to pick the gun up. He clicks the safety off, and Grantaire looks at him in alarm. "Enjolras, what the hell –"

Enjolras points it at the coffee table, and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. "I knew it," says Enjolras. "You didn't put a second bullet in."

"Oh my God." Grantaire looks terrified, and pulls the gun away from him even though it's not loaded. "I could have."

"But you didn't. You thought I would make the shot."

"That's not the point. You couldn't pull out the cartridge and check, like a normal person?" Tension is seeping back into the line of Grantaire's shoulders, and that's not what Enjolras wants at all. He's trying to show Grantaire that he appreciates the trust, even though Enjolras has been, admittedly, a little shitty with the trust issues lately.

"Grantaire," says Enjolras, and wonders if his actions will speak louder than words. He leans forward, and presses his lips against Grantaire's.

Grantaire goes stock still.

Enjolras pulls back. "...No?"

Grantaire licks his lips carefully, sways for a moment before touching his fingers up to his lips; he snaps himself out of it. "I think you might be in shock. From, you know, having just killed someone. Or maybe it's an adrenaline high."

"You don't think I'm in my right mind at the moment," says Enjolras, disappointed.

"I don't think you're in your right mind a lot of the time," says Grantaire with a lopsided smile. "You wouldn't need me to protect you if you were." It's reverted to their usual, easy banter and relief sweeps through Enjolras.

"I'm not just thanking you," says Enjolras. "Or apologising. Even though I want to do both those things. I would quite like to just... kiss you, too."

Grantaire smiles, like he understands. And maybe he does, but he still presses his hand gently against Enjolras's cheek. "I don't think now's the time for it," he says, and he laughs at himself. "God, can't believe I'm talking myself out of this. Enjolras, you've got something weird going on and you won't tell me what it is, which is okay because you don't have to tell me everything at all, but you are spending sleepless nights over this. You need to sort it out first."

"You're too rational," says Enjolras. He closes his eyes. He knows he told Combeferre that they needed to think about it before telling the others, but Enjolras needs to be able to share it with someone. Combeferre has Courf, and Jehan, and Enjolras has – Grantaire.

"Éponine's parents are the leaders of Patron-Minette," says Enjolras, before he can regret his decision. He opens his eyes to see Grantaire staring at him.

"What?"

"You didn't hear wrong," says Enjolras tiredly. "Combeferre found out her surname, it's on official records from when she was a child and everything. We don't know what to do about it."

"It doesn't necessarily mean she's involved," says Grantaire.

Enjolras shakes his head, but it's in admiration, because Grantaire is so quick to defend his friends, and Enjolras was ready to believe betrayal in a hot second. "I know," he says. "I know, but at the same time, I'm not certain. I hate not being certain."

"Not everyone does what their parents do," says Grantaire. "Like you."

Enjolras laughs. "God. Okay, yes. I take your point."

–

It's not that Grantaire completely dismisses the idea. He just deals with it differently than Enjolras. He deals with the payments and the paperwork for the SIG job, and then he grabs two cheap bottles of wine and disappears and doesn't come home for the rest of the day. Enjolras listlessly sifts through his work before realising he's unused to being alone again. He wonders how long it will be before Grantaire will let him kiss him again, properly, with no ulterior motives.

When Grantaire gets back the next morning, it's to find Enjolras asleep behind the sofa, Grantaire's loaned gun within arm's reach.

"What the fuck," asks Grantaire's voice from somewhere above Enjolras's head, and he blearily opens his eyes to see Grantaire looking over him worriedly.

"Morning," yawns Enjolras.

"Are you hungover?" asks Grantaire incredulously.

Enjolras blinks awake. "No?"

No Grantaire waking up before him means there's no coffee in the coffeepot, and Enjolras blinks blankly at it for a long moment. It's been a while since he's had to do it himself; he's somehow got used to Grantaire living here.

"Then why are you sleeping on the floor?" asks Grantaire, following him into the kitchen. Grantaire _is_ hungover, and Enjolras generously gets the mug allocated to Grantaire down from the kitchen cabinet too.

"Because you weren't here," says Enjolras. "It wasn't safe."

"What?"

"You didn't come home last night," says Enjolras patiently. "So I couldn't sleep in my bed."

Grantaire is gaping at him, and Enjolras wonders if he's broken him. "But," says Grantaire. "We fixed the locks, linked it in to your security system. It's approved by Feuilly and everything."

"But you weren't here," Enjolras says again.

Grantaire squints at him; Enjolras doesn't know why, because he's making perfect sense to himself. Maybe he's saying fewer things out loud than he thinks he is. Courfeyrac told him that he does that sometimes. "You weren't here," he says, trying again. "So if someone came in through the bedroom, the first place they expect me to be is in bed. I wouldn't defend myself in time. But here, I can see the windows and the doors but no one expects someone to be sleeping behind the sofa. It's a good vantage point."

Enjolras can see the realisation literally dawn across Grantaire's face, one feature distorting at a time until his mouth is in a perfect rounded 'o'.

"I'm not _completely_ useless," he says, somewhat sulkily.

"But Enjolras," says Grantaire after a moment, "You sleep like the dead. I was literally standing over you and talking to you before you woke up."

"Yes, well. I never said it was a perfect plan," says Enjolras crossly. He _tried._

"All this time," says Grantaire slowly. "Have you been relying on me to defend you?"

"Yes," says Enjolras, giving Grantaire an odd look. "Haven't you?!"

"Yes, of course," says Grantaire. "I just never realised – never mind."

Enjolras isn't awake enough to try and figure out what he's missing. "Coffee?"

It turns out that coffee and waking up were probably not good ideas. Grantaire heads downstairs, and his apartment seems too empty, too quiet again. Enjolras can't stop replaying that moment when he pulled the trigger. He'd been surprised he'd got the shot, he thinks. Glad that he hadn't let Grantaire down. But he can't remember for the life of him whether he'd been _happy_ about killing another person. He doesn't think he was, but memories are a fragile thing.

Grantaire finds him, two hours later, still cradling the same, half-drunk cup of coffee. "I didn't cry this time," says Enjolras blankly. "At least I cried after Montparnasse. At least that."

Grantaire approaches him like he's a skittish animal, and Enjolras closes his eyes as Grantaire wraps his arms around his shoulders and envelopes him into a hug. "You will," he says, and Enjolras isn't sure if it's a promise or a threat.

–

Grantaire is tapping away at his laptop again when Enjolras joins him on the sofa with his own laptop. It occurs to him very suddenly that Grantaire must be almost as good as Combeferre is with computers, if he is organising hits and discrete payments through his laptop and it makes him pause for a moment.

Grantaire, of course, despite still looking at his screen, notices. "What is it?"

"I was just wondering," says Enjolras, tucking his leg up underneath him, "if you had assassin forums or listings and so on. You know, where people can post their grievances and assassins offer to take the hit for a certain amount. Or where you guys exchange killing tips and body disposal sites."

Grantaire's lips quirk upwards. "Not quite, no. I did find something interesting though."

"Oh?"

"Could be nothing. Could be something. I'll find out soon enough. I'll you know."

"You're being cryptic," complains Enjolras, resisting the urge to peer over Grantaire's shoulder at his screen. That would just be rude.

"I'll let you know," repeats Grantaire firmly.

It takes the better part of three days, three days in which the combined efforts of Combeferre, Bossuet and Joly can't seem to pin down where the Thénardiers are right now, but it definitely turns out to be something.

"So, someone actually put a hit on this guy for reasons entirely unrelated to Patron-Minette," says Joly, eyebrows so high up his forehead they disappear into his hair.

"Yep. He deals in a lot of shady things, it seems," says Grantaire, rifling through the folder to find the official police record that Combeferre dug up. Enjolras wonders how he managed that, but he's tried to learn hacking from Combeferre before, and it had involved learning multiple new languages that Enjolras kept getting mixed up.

There are a variety of charges on the report, everything from burglary and carjacking to drug dealing. In fact, the only thing not mentioned in it is any links to Patron-Minette, which is suspicious to say the least. Enjolras also notes that despite the numerous charges, only a handful of these were ever convicted, and of those, the sentences include fines, community service and probation. Interesting.

"These are the details from the client," says Grantaire, pointing at a single piece of paper. "For obvious reasons, they don't actually want us to know very much about them apart from where and how to kill the guy–"

"Which is why I took the opportunity to fill in the gaps," says Combeferre, gesturing to the rest of the folder. "He has a variety of names, but he's going by Claquesous for now. He's reasonably high up in the Patron-Minette organisation, but he also does jobs for several other organisations."

"Right, give us a sec to read this," says Bahorel, tugging the file towards himself.

The room falls silent as bits of paper get passed around, only the occasional questions being put forth. "What were the goods that he screwed the client out of?" asks Joly, tapping the unhelpfully vague brief.

"Jewellery," says Grantaire.

"Blood diamonds," clarifies Enjolras, mouth pursed in distaste. Enjolras doesn't get it. He can't tell real diamonds from paste, and the idea that people enslave people and kill other people over these things disgusts him. He'd been planning an exposé on blood diamonds a while back, but that was before Patron-Minette had entirely taken over his concentration.

"Are we supposed to retrieve them?" asks Jehan. "Because that is a different kind of job entirely."

Enjolras shakes his head. "They're gone, fenced in different directions. Not our problem. We just get to kill Claquesous. The main reason we're bringing it to a meeting is because I had a thought, and we need to decide. Do we want to take the hit as ourselves?"

"As Les Amis?" asks Bossuet, freezing halfway through a page. "As on, put our name out there as a group who take these kinds of jobs?"

"Yeah," says Enjolras grimly. "It would be different, of course. We wouldn't take the jobs. We wouldn't be for hire. It would be if we saw someone who should be, who _needed_ to be taken down."

"That's getting a little close to playing God," says Joly uncomfortably.

Enjolras frowns. "We're already doing it. Have you forgotten Montparnasse? The men holding the children? This isn't about that. It's about _telling_ people that this is what we do. We won't be a faceless hacker group anymore. We'll be a group people know are enacting _justice_."

"If God did that kind of shit, we wouldn't have to," says Courfeyrac cheerfully, but it's ringing a little hollow. He licks his lips, like he can't believe he just said that, and says, "I vote no."

Enjolras looks around the room; a couple of them seem shaken by what he's suggested but a couple of them seem thoughtful too. "We don't have to decide now."

"I couldn't, personally, I can't do that sort of thing," says Joly, "so I don't think I can vote yes. The hacking and the exposés, I can do that."

"I vote yes," says Feuilly. "I understand if you don't want to count my vote, since I've only recently joined you, but – I think it's necessary. Sometimes. And this group here... I would trust you to make the right decisions about who."

Enjolras nods. "It's not like we decide that we do this, and then we take out whoever comes along. We would have to discuss every case individually. In terms of Claquesous though – we'll do this as we have been so far. No mention of Les Amis."

The talk turns to more light-hearted matters, wavering away from murders and hits and towards television shows and cat videos, but the folder lies, splayed in the middle of the table, like a burning accusation of what dark road lies ahead of them as an option.

"You didn't vote," says Enjolras quietly as he leans over to Combeferre.

"It would have been irrelevant. It was going to be a majority no," says Combeferre, which isn't an answer, but then, Enjolras didn't ask a question, not really.

"Are you glad to have an excuse to get rid of him?" asks Combeferre as he refills Enjolras's glass of water, and Enjolras winces. It's just like Combeferre to cut straight to the heart of the problem.

"I think so," says Enjolras. It's not like him to be so indecisive. "I think – yes. I think yes."

"It'll throw Patron-Minette for sure," Combeferre says. "And they'll be confused because the death won't have anything to do with Les Amis. If we don't do this, someone else will take the hit."

"This... this could help us. It'd definitely divert their attention outwards, at least. Maybe that'll let Éponine finish her unfinished business."

Combeferre looks at him. "So you trust her then?"

"I still don't know," admits Enjolras. "I want to. We just have to be alert, in case we can't, and hope that whatever she's out there doing, it'll benefit us."

–

Someone takes a shot at Enjolras.

He's with Grantaire, walking down the street holding a bag of groceries, because delving into a strange and unfamiliar violent world of crime doesn't excuse them from needing groceries, when the hit comes. Grantaire sees it coming, sees the glint of metal from a rooftop and associates it with _gun gun gun_ when Enjolras would have just ignored it, and shoulders Enjolras out of the way as he swears.

The groceries smack to the ground with a crunch, and all Enjolras can think in his daze is that the eggs are probably cracked. It doesn't register what's occurred until he sees the blood. "Grantaire," he says, frowns. "What – what happened?"

"Shooter," says Grantaire, flicking barely a glance down at the red stain spreading across his sleeve. "Come on, move!"

"What," says Enjolras, his brain catching up all at once as Grantaire physically grabs him and shoves him behind a car. "What?! Fuck, you just got shot, Grantaire."

"Don't freak out," orders Grantaire, his voice curt and sharp and unlike anything Enjolras has ever heard directed at him as two more shots ring out, smashing the window above their head. "Stay down." He braces himself for a moment, and then uses his teeth and good hand to rip his t-shirt apart. The blood swells up from under the fabric as Grantaire thrusts half a blood-stained t-shirt at Enjolras and shaking shards of safety glass out of it. "Tie this around my arm. As tight as you can, above the wounds."

"Wounds?"

"Through and through. Small mercies."

Enjolras does as he's told, rolling the fabric up and tugging it around Grantaire's shoulder even as streaks of red smear their way across his hands.

"Where's your gun?" Grantaire's already focussing on business, pulling his gun out and calculating angles. He leans out from around the car, takes a single shot.

Enjolras tries to ignore the blood, just focus on getting the fabric as tight as he can. "Didn't bring it with me. We're only fucking grocery shopping."

"You didn't – what's the point of having a fucking gun if you never fucking carry it on you?" Grantaire swears some more and Enjolras ignores him. He's wishing he got into the habit of carrying the gun that Grantaire gave him everywhere too.

"Fucking handguns," Grantaire mutters as he tries again, barely even wincing as Enjolras jerks the fabric taut across his muscles. He's not sure it is tight enough, but he can't get it any tighter so he wrestles the rest of the t-shirt off Grantaire and wads it up around his arm. He notes absently that his hands aren't shaking.

"Shooter's gone," Grantaire reports the next time he looks out from the car. "Let's get the fuck out of here. We're ordering groceries in from now on." Thankfully, the street is deserted, as it usually is at this time of day with most of the suburbanites out at work, and they grab the groceries and call Combeferre.

"Hospital," says Enjolras dumbly, too many years as a civilian ingrained into him. "We should – shit. We can't, can we?"

"It's fine, let's just get off the street first," says Grantaire, the first signs of pain ekeing through into the edge of his voice. "Not back to yours. Clearly, they know our routine." He grabs one of the bags, ignoring the way the eggs form a sort of puddle in the bottom, and staggers toward a side street.

"Let me," says Enjolras, taking the bags. Grantaire looks like he's about to protest, but Enjolras adds, "You should keep your hand on your gun."

Grantaire nods. Not too many people walk past their street, luckily, and Grantaire keeps the gun hidden against his leg. Still, Enjolras's stomach is wound tight with nerves by the time their ride comes.

It's Joly who picks them up and drives them over to his, taking a roundabout route that takes far too long for Enjolras's liking given that the t-shirt against Grantaire's arm is now completely soaked through.

"Leave it," he says the one time Enjolras tries to take a look at it, and zips his jacket up to help maintain the pressure. He pulls his phone out instead and starts tapping away with his one free hand; Grantaire focussed is all sharp edges and whirring minds. He's probably already looking for information on who the shooter was.

Enjolras stares at the blood on his hands, wondering what it would have been like if it were his. Joly glances at them in the rearview mirror, just catching Enjolras's eyes, and Enjolras just tells him, "Drive faster."

–-

"What do you think?"

"I'm a dropped out med student, not a surgeon," says Joly as he daubs antiseptic across the wound. "Good job on the tourniquet, but it looks like you've lost a lot of blood anyway."

"Enjolras's work." Grantaire grins. "Don't worry, I just need you to neaten it up. I know people."

"People?"

"People who patch up people like me without involving hospitals," clarifies Grantaire.

Joly peers at him with wide eyes. "Well why the fuck didn't you go there first?!"

"Needed to get Enjolras off the streets," says Grantaire like it's a logical answer.

Enjolras freezes from where he's washing his hands and watching Grantaire's blood swirl faintly down the drain, and glares. "You idiot. You colossal idiot."

"It's only my non-dominant arm."

"Only–" starts Enjolras, but Grantaire just smiles thinly at him.

"Enjolras. It wasn't _me_ they were shooting at. I'll be fine. I actually get shot reasonably often, you know. Occupational hazard." That's true, at least.

"I'm safe now," snaps Enjolras, harsher than he means to. "Go see someone. 'Someone'. God. What if your back alley shady quack doctor screws it up? You should be going to a hospital–"

"Enjolras–"

"You deserve proper medical attention for this, you deserve a professional, you deserve–nice things..." Enjolras stutters to a halt, aware that everyone is staring at him.

"Do I? Maybe I do," says Grantaire, looking like he's biting back laughter, "but I want _you_ , and you? Are not nice."

Enjolras is aware that he is blushing. That's the first time they've addressed… _this thing_ , and Grantaire does it when they're in front of other people, when he's _hurt_ and _bleeding_. God.

"Don't worry, I already texted them," says Grantaire, letting Joly dress him with proper bandages and then sling his arm up. "and they are not a back alley quack, or whatever you said. I asked Feuilly to come over. He'll know what to do."

He stands, and cups Enjolras's face, and Enjolras leans into the warmth of his callused hand without even thinking about it. "Enjolras," says Grantaire. "Stop freaking out. I am fine. You are fine."

"I just," says Enjolras. He blinks, lost for words. "You got hurt because of me."

"I got hurt _for_ you, there's a difference," says Grantaire. He presses a kiss to Enjolras's forehead. "I promise you I am thinking about myself as well as about you. I promise."

"Okay," says Enjolras. "Next time, I'll take a bullet for you."

Grantaire blinks down at him and laughs, caught by surprise. "How romantic."

In his pocket, Grantaire's phone buzzes. He flicks it out, reads the message there. "Alright, Feuilly is here, and is driving me to the clinic. I'll be back soon." He sends Joly a look over the top of Enjolras's head, and Enjolras _knows_ it means 'take care of him'. It's a little infuriating they don't think he's going to take care of himself for the few hours Grantaire is leaving him alone.

He almost misses it, until Grantaire gets up, and _sways._

"Wha – _shit_." Enjolras darts forward and catches him.

Grantaire smiles at him weakly. "Whoops."

Enjolras honest to God _snarls_ at him because now he can see the perspiration beading against his face, and how unfocussed his eyes are. No wonder Grantaire kept him at a distance. He wraps an arm around Grantaire's waist, and Grantaire hisses as he jostles the wound.

Enjolras doesn't think twice, just slips his other arm behind Grantaire's knees and hefts him up; it's a testament to how bad Grantaire is feeling that he doesn't even try to put him in a headlock or anything.

"What the fuck," says Grantaire. His lips are pinched together in pain. "Put me down."

"No," says Enjolras. "I'm going to carry you to the car."

"What the actual fuck," says Grantaire. "Joly. Joly, you're not going to let him, are you?" Except, Enjolras is already making his way out of the house, and Joly is the one opening the doors for them.

"Fuck you all," says Grantaire, even as his hand curls around Enjolras's neck. "The indignity."

"Yes, yes," says Enjolras waspishly. "Forgive us for not wanting you to _die_ right here."

He carries Grantaire out of the house and into the car, and Feuilly raises an eyebrow at them. "He's not coming with us," Grantaire tells Feuilly. "I'm _fine_."

"I'm going to hold him so he doesn't topple over when the car goes around corners," says Enjolras.

"Alright," says Feuilly, opening the backseat door for them. "Here."

Enjolras bundles Grantaire into the car and climbs in over him as Grantaire half-heartedly tries to push him back out with his one good arm. "Goddamnit," says Grantaire when Enjolras manages to swing the door shut and Feuilly peels out the moment it does.

Grantaire stays resolutely sat up straight all on his own, right up until the car turns a corner and he flops onto Enjolras's shoulder. Enjolras gamely doesn't say anything like 'I told you so', just tucks Grantaire up against himself.

"Don't faint on me," says Enjolras, propping his cheek on the side of Grantaire's head, and ignores the way his voice wavers. "It's basically a scratch, you idiot."

"I'm not going to faint," mumbles Grantaire. "As if I'm going to miss out on time you're spending cuddling me."

Enjolras clutches him a little tighter. "I wish," he says, pushing the words out around the lump that's formed in his throat, "I wish I'd kissed you. Properly. When we weren't angry or stressed or dying."

–

Enjolras is not allowed in with them, something about new blood and unfriendly faces. Feuilly takes Grantaire in instead, one arm looped around his waist and the other holding Grantaire's arm across his shoulders, and Enjolras twiddles his thumbs in the backseat of the car.

The car door clicks open, and Enjolras starts, hitting his head on the top of the car. "R's fine," says Feuilly before he can get a word in. "Got a blood transfusion and he's asleep now. I'll drive you back."

"We're just leaving him there?" asks Enjolras indignantly. "In someone's basement? What if–"

"He's going to be _fine_ ," says Feuilly, amused but in a tone that brooks no argument. "Four stitches on the entry wound and six across the exit. We're going back to Joly's."

"We should all move house," says Enjolras, feeling a pang as he says the words. "Grantaire and I both have go-bags, if anyone can pick them up, and we should relocate as soon as possible. Azelma's the first priority, get her somewhere safe. We have a few more properties, between us." They're all _supposed_ to move occasionally, in case the police ever caught on to the hacking, but constantly being on the move is tiring and they'd grown complacent and confident in covering their tracks. But they aren't just an online presence anymore.

Enjolras has had four years of mostly living out of suitcases by now, and it had been _nice_ to be in his own place again, nice to have the luxury of having things he doesn't technically need, like books and dressing gowns and coffeemakers. He's going to miss it.

Feuilly nods. "Good decision. The computers?"

"Save them if you can; if not, we can remotely wipe them."

"We should ditch the cars too, or at least get a paint job and new licence plates. I can arrange that, if you'd like."

"Do it," says Enjolras. It's good to have something to concentrate on, so he's not just thinking about Grantaire constantly.

–

Les Amis move houses in a manner of hours. They rehearsed this, back when they started publishing the secrets of the powerful and influential, paranoid that secret police would come for them at any time.

Courfeyrac grabs Enjolras's and Grantaire's go-bags – and, because Courfeyrac knows Enjolras too well – a few treasured belongings.

Combeferre wipes them off the face of the world. There aren't any traces of their existence online anymore; Enjolras types his name into a search engine, and feels oddly blank when there are mentions of other family members, ones he had long disowned, but none of him. Combeferre is nothing but thorough.

They only exist as Les Amis now.

Jehan goes to pick Grantaire up – in hindsight, Enjolras should have known. But he's too busy sorting everything out to realise until Courfeyrac picks his phone up and reads the message he just got and swears.

"They're gone," says Courfeyrac. "Shit. Jehan and Grantaire. They're gone."

"What do you mean, they're _gone_ ?" asks Enjolras, looking up from a tangle of keys and copies.

Courfeyrac is pale as he holds his phone up. 'Gone hunting, home soon. Love you x' the messages says. It's from Jehan.

Enjolras fumbles for his phone. He remembers that it had vibrated a few minutes ago but he'd ignored it. There's a message from Grantaire that is thankfully, _thankfully_ more comprehensive than Jehan's. 'Jehan and I will be back soon, I promise. Sorry I couldn't bring you along on this one. Stay safe.'

"What the hell," he says, vision going blurry as his hands start to shake. "Shit, we've got to find them."

"No," says Feuilly quietly

Enjolras rounds on him, realisation dawning. "You knew. They're going after the shooter. You _knew_."

"Yes," says Feuilly. "R and I discussed the best way to do it when he was getting treatment. And you need to leave them to it."

"But," says Enjolras, squeezing his phone so tightly his knuckles go white. Courfeyrac looks like he's just been punched in the gut, which is exactly what Enjolras feels.

Feuilly shakes his head before he can even figure out what he wants to say, wants to do. "You can't. They're two people who are very good at what they do. You'd distract them, and that could mean getting them killed."

"But," says Enjolras, and he's _aware_ he's not saying anything new but there are no words going his brain right now; there's just faint fuzzy static as he stare at Feuilly. He refuses to believe that there's nothing he can do. He scrabbles at his phone, hits 'call'. It takes four, long, excruciating rings before Grantaire picks up.

"I'm sorry," says Grantaire before Enjolras can say anything at all, and that just whisks the breath out of him. It's not fair, Grantaire isn't allowed to do things like this and then _apologise_.

Enjolras closes his eyes. "Grantaire." His voice cracks.

"I'm sorry," says Grantaire again, "but Enjolras. You know we have to do this. You know."

"Just – be safe," says Enjolras, trying to form words around the cloud that's settling over his thoughts right now. "Get them for me. And, God. Tell me it isn't Éponine."

Silence stretches both on this side of the phone and Grantaire's side.

"I will," says Grantaire fiercely. "And. Me too. I wish I'd–"

"Don't say it," says Enjolras urgently. "Not like this. Not until you're back here and I can look you in the eyes."

"Okay," says Grantaire. "Okay. We'll be in touch. Tell Combeferre and Courfeyrac hi from Jehan. He'll phone them when he's not driving."

"Okay," says Enjolras. He finds himself blinking furiously, but his vision is still blurry. "Bye."

"Bye."

"Jehan says hi," says Enjolras numbly. "He'll call you when he's not driving. I'm sorry, this is my fault."

Courfeyrac smacks him hard on the arm; Enjolras didn't even see it coming and he jumps, dropping his phone. "Ow!"

"Don't say that, you idiot," says Courfeyrac. "Of course it's not your fault. Those two fucking – they'd better find the shooter and kill them quickly and get back so I can fucking kill them."

"I think that defies the point a little," says Combeferre, but even his smile is a little strained.

"At least Grantaire's with Jehan," says Courfeyrac, and that's probably meant to reassure Enjolras. But Enjolras _knows_ how deadly Grantaire is, even with one arm strapped to his chest. Jehan is mostly unknown to him. Enjolras can't work out how much of Jehan is an act. It is, at least partially, he knows. He's seen Jehan's smile just slide off his face sometimes when no one's paying attention to him, like it's a switch he can just turn on and off.

And Jehan's interactions with Courfeyrac and Combeferre are even more baffling. With Courfeyrac, he is an incorrigible flirt, blooming like a flower whenever Courfeyrac lavishes him with attention, as Courfeyrac is wont to do, and yet with Combeferre... It's more like a courtship dance.

"I suppose," says Enjolras slowly.

Coureyrac's eyebrow twitches, like he doesn't appreciate the implied mistrust on his boyfriend, and Enjolras smiles apologetically at him.

"I just – don't know him like you two do."

"He's ruthless," says Combeferre slowly. "He'll get the job done, and it won't be quick."

"And you like that?" Enjolras's closest encounter with torture is with Montparnasse, and even then it was more interrogation than actual torture.

Combeferre stares at him. "Would I like the person who tried to kill you, the same person who actually did shoot Grantaire, to suffer? Yes."

"When you put it that way." Enjolras stares at the 'call ended' screen on his phone, strangely reluctant to put it away. "You've changed."

Courfeyrac snorts. Shakes his head in disbelief, probably not because he disagrees, but because Enjolras is pointing out such an _obvious_ fact. Combeferre carefully cleans his glasses. "Yes. What do you want me to say, Enjolras? Yes, I have changed, and yes, it is nominally because I have taken Jehan into my –"

"Bed?"

"Heart."

Enjolras gives him a long, considering look, but Combeferre seems entirely serious. "Doesn't it –"

"–Worry me? Of course. I wonder if we've crossed over to the dark side all the time."

"And? Have we?" Enjolras stares at the wall, because he already knows what his answer would be.

"Yes," says Combeferre. If it had been Courfeyrac, he might have said no, or laughed it off, but Combeferre doesn't allow himself the luxury of denial. "If you could sell your soul to save a hundred others, would you?"

"Yes," says Enjolras.

"Then we had better get saving." Combeferre smiles, a mere ghost of his usual, but it reassures Enjolras anyway.

–

Enjolras goes to Lyon by himself. It feels strange, being by himself on a job again, even though he used to do it all the time. Les Amis are watching, of course, on CCTV and satellite cams, but that's a different kind of comfort; that's knowing that whatever happens to him, his work has been documented. It's not the same as having a physical person there, next to him.

They'd offered to go with him, all of them had, but Enjolras had waved them off, said he was used to going under by himself. He needs them to focus on finding the Thénardiers, on finding Éponine, on supporting Jehan and Grantaire if need be. And so. Enjolras goes to Lyon by himself.

It's not complicated. Enjolras has a location, he has his guns, and his knives, and the book he'd been reading on the train, and he's done undercover work before. Enjolras knows exactly what he going to do and how he's going to do it, and yet whenever he thinks of an alternative, he turns to ask for a second opinion – and Grantaire isn't there.

Enjolras blinks at the wall the third time it happens, and then carries on down the hallway to his hotel room.

Enjolras breaks in to Claquesous's penthouse apartment about ten minutes after he leaves it. Enjolras wonders briefly whether the Thénardiers might be in Lyon too, if Claquesous works for them, but he's sure the others will find them if they are; in the meantime, he has his own work to do. Enjolras is not Feuilly, or Grantaire, so he doesn't know how to pick locks, but given that Claquesous's apartment is the only one on this floor, he just shoots the lock open and kicks the door in.

He snags a tripwire across the door, in case Claquesous comes back earlier than he expects, and Enjolras ransacks the apartment. He's looking for hints as to the Thénardiers' dealing, any paperwork he might have. The laptop is passworded, and Enjolras pulls out a USB stick with one of Bossuet's programs on, and sets it unlocking as he raids the bedroom.

There's a safe in the wardrobe that he actually knows how to open, a skill learnt from a previous job, and he sets to work on that. He's out of practice; he misses the clicks three times before he manages to get them all consecutively because his heartbeat is thudding so loudly he can't hear over them, and he lets out an explosive breath once he's done. He's going to have to get Bossuet to update him on safe cracking, and someone needs to teach him how to pick locks.

There are a couple of valuables inside – a bag of suspicious white powder probably worth its weight in gold from how fine it is, a couple of diamonds, though whether they're real or not remains to be seen, a couple of microchips that Enjolras has never seen before. He pockets them anyway, and shuts the safe again.

The computer manages to load, and Enjolras connects up to the internet and dumps the entirety of Claquesous's computer contents into Les Amis' secure FTP, his heart pounding on his chest as his ears strain to hear if Claquesous is back yet. They'll sort the information out later. If it doesn't manage to load in time, he'll settle for taking the hard drive with him but this way, whoever comes to investigate his death will never realise that Enjolras raided his computer.

In the time remaining, Enjolras trashes the house. He pulls out clothes drawers and bookshelves, tries to make it look like knick-knacks off the mantlepiece are missing. The computer beeps at him – Enjolras wipes the internet history from today, and shuts it back down. And then – he lies in wait.

Claquesous is going to realise something's amiss the moment he sees the kicked in door, and Enjolras intends to take advantage of that by propping it completely open. It's late when he gets back, and Enjolras's joints are starting to ache. He's cold, and the sandwich he'd brought with him has long digested into a cold lump in his stomach, or perhaps that's his nerves. He really doesn't know how Grantaire does this. But the elevator pings; the door opens to reveal Claquesous; he falters when he sees the open door – and beyond it, Enjolras.

It's already too late. Enjolras has been sitting directly opposite the door; he shoots Claquesous. He's not Grantaire, he can't aim and shoot at the same time, or whatever it is the fuck that Grantaire does, so he just empties the clip. Claquesous falls back into the elevator, and twitches. The doors close.

Enjolras walks over, and presses the button to the elevator. The doors slide open again; he steps very carefully around the blood splatter and He jams a chair between the doors so they can't shut again and peers down at Claquesous. He'd shot him thirteen times, but it never hurts to make sure. If he isn't already dead, he will be by the time someone notices that the elevator isn't working and comes up to see what's happened.

Enjolras leaves the chair where it is, and tumbles down the stairs instead. He was far away enough that there's no blood on his clothes, but he pulls his leather jacket out of his backpack and slings it on, just in case. He's wheezing by the end he gets to the bottom, but Enjolras can't remember if he was panting before or after he started down the stairs. He leaves the building, jogs a good mile away from the building before catching a taxi to the station, and gets on the first high-speed train back to Paris.

"It's done," says Enjolras hollowly, the moment his call connects to Combeferre. The train carriage is mostly empty at this time of night, but Enjolras heads into the toilet just in case. "And I didn't need Grantaire at all."

"Hmm," says Combeferre. "Good job. We got all the info off his computer. There's a good chunk about the Thénardiers, but I don't suppose you stopped to ask any more questions, did you?"

"Sorry," says Enjolras. "I don't think I've unlocked the torture skill yet."

"What?"

Enjolras giggles down the phone, sudden and inappropriate. "What? That was funny."

Combeferre's silence on the other end is thoughtful. "Yeah, okay, I think you do need Grantaire after all. Are you – on an adrenaline high?"

"Maybe," admits Enjolras. "It went really well. Everything went exactly how I thought it would. Grantaire would be proud of me. Did he call?"

"Not yet."

"There are some other things I need you to look into when I get back," says Enjolras. "I found a couple of random other things in Claquesous's place, I don't know if they're related, or from his other jobs."

"Again, you couldn't have stopped to ask him?"

Enjolras scowls. "I didn't want to botch it up. The longer I left him alive, the longer he would have had to escape. I'm not good enough to do it like that yet."

"Okay," says Combeferre, placatingly, and Enjolras pouts. He did a good job, someone ought to be congratulating him. (He knows, he _does_ , that it's not merely someone he wants, it's Grantaire. Because this is something that he and Grantaire started doing together, and Grantaire would like that Enjolras is becoming capable at it.)

"I'll be home soon," says Enjolras. "We can talk about it then."

At Gare Lyon, Enjolras accidentally gives the old address to the taxi driver, and then hurries to correct himself. He wonders how long it'll be before he can go back there again.

But then, the idea of his own bed and his coffeemaker is not _quite_ as welcome as getting back to find Combeferre and Courfeyrac waiting up for him. "Why are you here? You should have gone to bed," he says, surprised, dropping his bags onto the floor and flopping into their combined hug.

"Don't be silly," says Courfeyrac. "Do you _know_ how much shit was on his computer? I have clicked on more porn in the last hour than I have in the last month."

"Did not need to know that," says Enjolras. "Wow."

They settle in on the sofa together in a manner that hasn't quite happened since Grantaire, and then Jehan arrived. It's comforting, and reminds Enjolras of what they used to be like, spending late nights sprawled across each other trying to get around bank systems to see where off-shore accounts are based, or carefully wording a report together that will be plastered over the internet for days afterwards.

He hands Combeferre the microchips and he examines them, but this sort of thing is more Bossuet's area so they leave them for the morning.

Enjolras leans his head against Courfeyrac's shoulder and watches as Combeferre sifts through Claquesous's files to find what looks relevant and Courfeyrac goes through all the details. He's drowsy, the last hour of the journey sapping the last of his adrenaline, and the clack-clack of the keyboard keys is soothing familiarity.

"What about this though?" mutters Courfeyrac, and saves the document he's looking at to examine later.

"Aha," says Combeferre. "I've figured out how he encodes his porn. I can get rid of all of that in one go… Thank God."

Courfeyrac runs through a couple of emails, and then reads them through again. "Huh. Ferre, can you see if this is in the files?"

Enjolras drifts off somewhere along the way, and slides down to tuck his head on Courfeyrac's lap instead, and Courf pats his head absently. That's the last of it until Enjolras is woken up again by Courfeyrac shaking him.

"Ow, wha – what?"

"Enjolras. Sorry, I know you're tired," says Courfeyrac, "but we found something."

Enjolras rubs his eyes; the screens seem entirely too bright for him now, and he squints until the words come into focus. He reads it, then reads it again. "I don't get it. Who's he talking to?"

"Interpol," says Combeferre. "It looks like he's an informer. I'm trying to hack into their database now, but – it's _Interpol_."

Enjolras sits up straight; his spine clicks twice, and he winces. "I'm sorry, what? Claquesous is a police informer? The guy had a _bag of drugs_ in his bedside safe."

Courfeyrac shrugs. "The emails are all are from within the last few months. He could have been a double agent or a triple agent, or giving information and still doing shady shit on the side."

"Who did he mention? Is he ratting out the Thénardiers?"

Courfeyrac scans the emails he's collated together. "He reported on a few different groups. The Hornecs, the Thénardiers, the Jondrettes, whoever they are, and... us."

"What? We aren't an organised crime group," splutters Enjolras.

"Not like that. He mentioned that we were getting in the way of the investigation. He wanted to know if we – or, more specifically, you, Enjolras – were from another agency."

"Shit," says Enjolras. "Someone out there put a hit on him. Do you think the diamonds were a decoy, and it's because someone knew he was a police informer?"

"Who knows," says Combeferre. "But we have bigger problems. We're on the Wanted list."

He turns his screen around, and shows them Interpol's internal database. At number 18 is now Les Amis, with a little side-note about their leader, Enjolras, and a brief physical description of him.

"Well, fuck," says Enjolras.

–

' _Got him. Wasn't Éponine. On our way home_.' Enjolras spends the entire day smiling at the text, even as Combeferre, Joly and Bossuet work over-time, deleting any camera footage they can find of themselves, but especially any of Enjolras in Lyon.

Jehan and Grantaire return like victorious heroes, or perhaps Enjolras is just a little biased.

"You're back," he says, smiling rather stupidly as he helps Grantaire with his bag.

"I am," says Grantaire, smiling rather stupidly back at him, and letting Enjolras pull him in for a hug – no, not a hug, a kiss. A proper kiss, that they both want, with Enjolras's hands cupping Grantaire's jaw and Grantaire's good arm around Enjolras's waist; a kiss that Enjolras lets himself smile into, and feels Grantaire's tongue dart across his.

"I'm back too," says Jehan petulantly. "Where are _my_ kisses?" They break apart, laughing as Courfeyrac descends on him with kisses of his own.

"I love you," said Enjolras, when the others have moved into the next room, and the words are quiet but distinct.

It's only for a moment, but Grantaire hesitates. "Because I saved your life?" he asks.

"Unrelated to you saving my life," says Enjolras, "but without that I might not have the courage to say it aloud."

Grantaire's mouth purses. He smoothes down Enjolras's shirt from where it'd rucked up during their kiss, and picks up his bags. "You should probably find it," he says quietly, and slips past Enjolras to join the others in the living room.

"See what you can find on the Jondrettes," says Jehan as he curls up on Combeferre's lap. "That's who hired our shooter."

"Wait," says Courfeyrac. "I remember that name – off Claquesous's emails."

"How was Lyon?" asks Grantaire, subdued, and Enjolras wants to tell him he's sorry, that he does, he _does_ love him but – Grantaire would never believe him right now.

"Good," says Enjolras instead. "You should have seen me, it was – it was perfectly executed. Quick and painless."

"Congratulations." Grantaire smiles, but Enjolras knows him enough by now to know that this is not how Grantaire really smiles.

"What is it?"

"You seem… pretty happy for having just killed a guy."

"A guy who was high up in Patron-Minette," says Enjolras. "Who helped sell off children for money and who also dealt drugs and smuggled guns and did other horrible, terrible things."

"Who helped the police."

Enjolras scoffs. "Probably to save his own hide! As if that meagre effort would wipe the blood off his hands."

"I know," says Grantaire quickly, and Enjolras suddenly realises that his voice had been getting steadily louder. "I know. I get it. It's just – you've changed."

Enjolras is taken aback. He'd thought Grantaire would be happy, proud of him. Not this. "I – of course I have. I thought you wanted me to."

Grantaire smiles sadly. "No… I knew you needed to, I knew it was just going to be a matter of time, but that doesn't mean I wanted you to."

"So that's it then? You don't want me anymore?" Enjolras doesn't understand. He's only becoming more like Grantaire. He stands up, suddenly furious, and paces around the room. He's aware that the others have stopped working at the table to stare at him but he doesn't care.

"I didn't say that!" Grantaire's face sags, making him look older than he is. "I do still want you."

"But," says Enjolras, his entire body vibrating with nerves, "You made me like this." That's unfair, it is entirely, completely unfair because everyone knows Grantaire has never made Enjolras do anything he didn't want to.

But of course, Grantaire doesn't say so. "I know," he says instead. "Enjolras – I don't _care_. I don't. You know I'll always want you."

Enjolras just stands there, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Promise me," he says, closing his eyes. "Because I'm going to get worse."

Grantaire reaches for him, grabs him when Enjolras doesn't protest, and hugs him tightly. "Promise."

That night, Grantaire turns up in Enjolras's bed.

Enjolras walks in and finds him lying on one side of the bedcovers with arms behind his head and smoking. At least he took his shoes off. Enjolras has long since stopped expecting Grantaire to share the bed with him as he had offered, those long months ago, but he refuses to let it throw him now. He goes about his normal bedtime routine, excepting that he adds a t-shirt to his usual soft pyjama bottoms, and wriggles into the unoccupied side as he tugs the covers out from under Grantaire.

Grantaire seems incredibly unperturbed. Enjolras is curled up, his back to Grantaire, when Grantaire exhales a mouthful of smoke, and asks, "Could you kill a man?"

It's a throwback, Enjolras knows immediately, to when Grantaire had asked the same question before, on the phone. "Yes," says Enjolras, immediately. He waits for the shame to flood through his stomach, to make him nauseous, but it doesn't come.

The bed shifts next to him and Grantaire is pushing himself over Enjolras; Enjolras rolls over to meet him. Grantaire's eyes are inscrutable, but they often are. Grantaire presses a dry kiss to Enjolras's forehead, his lips, his neck and rests his forehead against Enjolras's shoulder. "What are you doing?" asks Enjolras, which is not the same as 'yes', but also not the same as 'no'.

"Mourning," says Grantaire quietly. They stay like that for a long time.

–

"We're officially a terrorist organisation," says Courfeyrac. "That's what they _do_."

"We're _not_ a terrorist organisation," says Enjolras.

Bossuet taps at his screen. "We officially hit Interpol's top ten today. I think we can consider ourselves a terrorist organisation."

"No," says Enjolras, somewhat horrified, "we will _not_ be requiring the donation of half a finger from all our people to prove their loyalty." He knows they're joking, making light of the situation, but – but _no_.

Bahorel pouts.

"Oh, oh," says Courfeyrac. "Brands! We could make a cast iron outline of the word liberté and brand everyone with it." Enjolras stares at him for a long moment. "A joke, Enjolras. It was a joke. Breathe."

"Tattoos," says Combeferre, with a completely straight face. "A tasteful one, of course."

"No," says Enjolras again, because being hunted by several European governments and being currently number 9 on Interpol's most wanted list does not, apparently, make him any more intimidating toward his friends, who are finding this situation most hilarious. " _No_ maimings, scarification or otherwise permanent body modifications. In fact, the fewer identifying marks we have, the better. We don't want to be easily identifiable if any of us are arrested."

"Does that mean we'll be cutting your hair off then?" asks Grantaire from the corner where his lips twist in amusement and even the smoke wafting from his cigarette seems to curl upwards in a mockery of him.

Enjolras pauses. "I suppose we should."

"Relax, Enjolras," says Grantaire, swinging his legs off the arm of the chair he has them draped over and going to refill his drink, tugging at one of Enjolras' bright curls as he walks past. "We could hardly have our angel of vengeance looking like a shorn sheep."

The very next day, Enjolras has cut his hair down to a respectable length, now curling even more without the length to weigh it down and everyone pretends not to see the look on Grantaire's face as he touches the end of a curl as if something precious has been lost.

–

"We have good news and bad news," says Combeferre.

"Dibs on the good news," says Courfeyrac. "We figured it out!" He possibly spent the night sleeping on the computer, because there are red keyboard imprints on his cheek and his hair on the same side is all squashed, but he looks alert. "The Jondrettes are the Thénardiers. They started going under the new name a while ago, which is why we can't seem to find any trace of the Thénardiers. We're getting hits on credit cards and things now, it shouldn't take long."

"That's great," says Enjolras, and pauses. "And – the bad news?"

"Interpol were mostly leaving us alone, since we're doing stuff that they approve of, but obviously can't openly back us, except now we've killed a police informer, they're starting to actively investigate us."

Enjolras sighs. "Of course they are. Are we still prepped to carry off Operation Floodgates?" Operation Floodgates is one of the first safety measures they set up for themselves. Every single piece of information that they collect is automatically uploaded. They don't publish all the stuff they collect, for obvious reasons. Sometimes there's not enough proof, or situations are circumstantial; sometimes it's just not what they're working on right now and it shuffled away to be worked on later, and so on. If one of them doesn't log in to the cloud once every three days, all of the information, every single dirty secret they've come across in the last four years, whether they've written it up or not, gets dumped onto the internet.

Combeferre nods. "You know that was for in case we got killed on a job or something."

"I know," says Enjolras, "but what if they arrest us? The floodgates open, and suddenly everyone knows exactly who we are and everything we've done. The people will back us, and we've suddenly got leverage."

"We should start looking into politicians too," says Combeferre, always a step ahead. "We've wrecked the careers of a few, and it would be good to know whether they're more angry at us, or afraid of us. _That's_ leverage."

"That's manipulative," says Courfeyrac admiringly. "I approve."

The doorbell rings; they collectively scramble for their laptops and other weapons of choice, the conversation about being arrested by the police too fresh in their minds. It's not the police though, it's a young man holding a map and looking very bemused.

"Yes?" asks Enjolras, opening the door as far as the chain on it allows.

"Is Courfeyrac here?"

"I'm sorry, who are you?" asks Enjolras.

"Ah," says Courfeyrac, pushing him aside and undoing the chain. "Enjolras. I meant to introduce you earlier. Erm. This is Marius. Our flatmate."

Enjolras's eyes slide from where they're dissecting Marius with the force of his gaze to Courfeyrac, and in turn his eyes slide slowly over to Combeferre, and then Jehan.

"Flatmate, Enjolras, not roommate."

"Ah," says Enjolras, which is about as delicate as he'll get when it comes to these sorts of things. He turns his glare back onto Marius, who wilts a little. "And why are you here?"

"I invited him," says Courfeyrac. "He seemed interested in the sort of thing we do." He waggles his eyebrows rather obviously at Enjolras, where Marius can't see, and Enjolras finally gets that Courfeyrac is trying to tell him something and he just can't figure out what.

"I see," says Enjolras. "In that case, come in. Take a seat. Courf will fill you in on what you've missed."

It becomes apparent in about three minutes flat that whilst Marius agrees with the broad sentiments of what they want to accomplish, he doesn't have an actual clue as to the things they do to accomplish these goals. He looks a little queasy at the idea of hurting people, and he's definitely terrified of Grantaire, who's only stroking his guns after he finishes polishing them and tells them how pretty they are just to fuck with Marius's head. He's definitely going to ask Courfeyrac what on earth he was thinking, bringing Marius on board.

It's not until they're going through each of the senators one by one, trying to pin down whether they would be a potential ally, or someone they could sway into backing them, when Marius says, "Oh. That's my grandfather!"

Enjolras looks at him with a carefully blank face. (Behind Marius, Courfeyrac is frantically knitting his eyebrows together again.)

"Well. No offense," says Enjolras, which he thinks is a reasonable thing to say after implying that his grandfather is a shameless greedy bastard probably taking bribes to line his own pockets.

"None taken," says Marius cheerfully.

After the meeting, Enjolras catches hold of Courfeyrac's elbow. "Where on earth did you find him?"

"Oh, I picked him off the street one day."

Enjolras wants to shake him – and so he does. "Well put him _back_ ," he says hotly. "Did you miss the part where we are internationally wanted criminals now?"

"He doesn't mind," says Courfeyrac.

"That's not – What if he turns us in?"

"Then he won't have anywhere to live," says Courfeyrac, stroking his arm like he's trying to calm a frightened puppy. Enjolras grits his teeth, because it's working and he doesn't want to be calmed down. "He's been disowned by his family, exactly because he disagrees with his grandfather, and he doesn't have anywhere else to live. He wants to _help_. He's got a great grasp of the political situation."

"Courf," groans Enjolras.

"Combeferre said yes," says Courfeyrac, with the same betrayed tone that children use when saying 'but _mum_ already said yes'.

"Combeferre," groans Enjolras.

"There, there," says Combeferre, patting Enjolras on the head gently. "It'll be fine. He's harmless. I saw him trip over and almost kill himself getting out of the shower this morning, Enjolras, seriously, he's definitely not another assassin biding his time."

"Fine," says Enjolras. "Fine. You can keep him."

The doorbell rings again.

It turns out that the houses they've relocated to are in Hornec gang territory. Enjolras barely has the capacity to deal with one gang right now, let alone another. "I'm not paying you to not break into my house," says Enjolras to the guy they've sent, a third cousin once-removed, a lackey. He's too surprised to form a more eloquent sentence which, in retrospect, he should have, but he's all spent up with tact and subtlety right now, and he never had much to start with.

"They ain't gonna like that," says the third cousin once-removed. "Also, the Jondrettes say hi."

Enjolras splutters, and there are guns drawn and the guy gets sent back sort of accidentally as a third cousin head-removed instead.

The timing couldn't be worse, because they're _so close_ to finding the Thénardiers, but now it looks like the Thénardiers are working with _other gangs_ to try and stop them. They splinter three of them off to look through everything Claquesous had reported in on the Hornecs and see if they can collate that with anything they might have backed up on their own servers, Enjolras gritshis teeth at how thin they're having to spread their manpower.

Enjolras drinks twice as much coffee as usual instead of going to bed, and between himself, Feuilly and Joly, they dox three of the Hornec's biggest operations, and write a report that implies that Interpol has been investigating them for decades, but never actually arrested any of them. It's shoddy work, of course – they're just creating something for Hornec to worry about other than them, and using public pressure to force Interpol's hand, but still. It's enough for now. When it goes live, they sign it as from _Les Amis de l'ABC_. It feels good. It feels like them.

There's a whole car of Hornecs outside the next day, and the entire street mysteriously empties itself of people despite being almost rush hour. They knock, because there are such a thing as good manners, and Jehan opens the door for them, bright and smiling. One of them places a hand on Jehan's shoulder and shoves him backwards; they laugh at him.

"Ohhhh," says Courfeyrac solemnly from down the hallway. "You should not have done that."

"What, you his fucking boyfriend?" one of them laughs. "What're you gonna do about it?"

"Me?" asks Courfeyrac, "I'm not going to do anything. I just type things. Him, on the other hand–" He gestures at Jehan.

Jehan slashes one of their throats, pins a hand holding a gun to the doorway with one knife and throws the other one so it slides smoothly in through the eyeball of the last person. "No means no," he chirps cheerfully.

"Really?" asks Joly, huffing as they all help lug the bodies back into the car, Courfeyrac standing guard over the only survivor as his hand bleeds out. "Really, Jehan? We _just_ moved into this place and now there's blood stains all over the hallway carpet."

They're at a bit of a loss as to what to do once they've got all the bodies loaded in the car, so mostly they stand around it, and stare.

"Fucks sake," says Grantaire eventually. "Who the fuck put that guy in the front seat? It's not like he's going to be fucking driving."

They open the front door and haul him out, and squash him into the back "The last guy," says Enjolras suddenly. "Don't kill him. We're gonna send him back, as a message."

Grantaire frowns for a moment, but he catches onto Enjolras's meaning soon enough. He grabs the guy's shirt and hauls him in very close. "Last night, you know that shit that went on the internet about the Hornecs?" The guy nods, eyes wide. "Well, that was us. You drive back to wherever the fuck you're based, and you tell them not to fuck with _Les Amis_."

The guy nods again, and the car roars out of sight once Grantaire shoves him behind the wheel.

They pull themselves together slowly, trying to convince themselves that's going to be the last of that. "We need a more permanent stop gap," says Combeferre, voicing all of their thoughts. "Something that will stop other gangs who are willing to work with the Thénardiers."

"We can fucking dox them all," snaps Courfeyrac.

"Wait," says Enjolras. "That's actually a really good idea. What if we expose what any gang is doing, any time _anything_ happens?"

"Then the police run around like headless chickens looking into hastily cleared warehouses," says Joly, frowning. "And the criminals pick up, move somewhere else and carry on."

"Yes," says Enjolras; he can feel his back getting straighter, the conviction coming through in his voice as the idea crystalises in his head. "And then we _keep doing it_. Think about it. We've always been waiting and biding our time so we can topple the entire tower at once. But this is like flicking away their first brick every time they try to lay it. We get them before it turns into a tower at all."

"The police are going to hate us," says Bahorel, but he's grinning.

"Forget the police, the criminal underworld of Paris is going to hate us," says Combeferre dryly.

Joly snorts. "They already hate us."

"Not Paris," says Enjolras fiercely. "The whole of France. For a _start_."

They've all been focussed on Patron-Minette for so long, it's good to start seeing beyond that.

Awe surges through everyone in the room, and Enjolras looks around them all, and grins. His eyes meet Grantaire's last, and Grantaire just shakes his head at him fondly, despairingly, proudly, and drains the rest of his bottle.

One of the computers beeps, and they all turn as one – Enjolras knows they're all hoping their cross-referencing programs have managed to pinpoint an address for the Thénardiers.

"It's Éponine's signal," says Bahorel as he scrolls through different windows, trying to figure out which one made the noise. Enjolras had almost forgotten about that.

"Triangulate," orders Enjolras, grabbing a chair as Bahorel plugs the co-ordinates in and pulls her location up.

"Suburban," comments Grantaire, leaning on the back of Enjolras's chair and looking over his shoulder. He feels all at once too close and yet untouchable, and frankly the warmth of his presence is a distraction. Enjolras forces himself to look back at the map.

"We should go," says Grantaire. "Right now. I have a feeling about this."

"Got any proof to go with that feeling?" asks Enjolras. "It could be a trap. I know you want to trust her, but it _could_ be."

"I have a lifetime of trusting my gut," says Grantaire. "I'm going even if you're not."

Enjolras feels his muscles tensing up as he anticipates a fight, and forces himself to relax. "Don't be stupid," he says stiffly. "If we go, we go together. Just the two of us – enough to be effective, not too many to be conspicuous and it means everyone else is safe if there _is_ a trap." He glares at Grantaire, daring him to fault Enjolras's logic though he, of everyone, knows best that there is nothing logical about this decision, not really.

"Alright," says Grantaire, his face so painfully blank that Enjolras can't even guess what he feels. "Grab your shit."

"I had an interesting conversation with Combeferre, by the way," says Grantaire, when they're in the car. "He seems to think you were a little… unhinged after Lyon."

"It was an adrenaline high," says Enjolras, frowning. "I'm allowed to act a little out of the normal after I've killed someone. Besides, you weren't there to keep me tethered."

"What?"

Enjolras flaps his hands impatiently, and takes a corner a little faster than he ought. "You weren't there. I had do everything myself. And yes, I did it and yes, I'm sure I could do it again, but I much prefer if when you're there. Just in case."

Grantaire stills, until Enjolras has to look over to convince himself he's actually still in the car. "Did you... miss me?" asks Grantaire.

"What," says Enjolras. "Of course I did. It was like missing an arm, it was horrible!"

Grantaire laughs shakily until it turns into a real laugh, and Enjolras has to pull over so he can stare at him. "Grantaire?"

"I was worried," admits Grantaire. "I thought you, I dunno, didn't need me anymore."

"No!" says Enjolras, and he's not sure what his face is like but Grantaire stops laughing, and presses a hand against his cheek. "I do need you. You have to be there to – to be my anchor. Watch my back, let me get on with stuff without worrying about it." He licks his lips. "I don't want to take another job alone," he admits.

"I can deal with that," says Grantaire, and gives him a quick kiss. "Come on, Éponine's waiting."

When they drive up, Éponine is waiting for them. They trudge past the front garden and toward the little alleyway that leads to the side door where Enjolras is smoking a cigarette. There are already half a dozen stubs scattered around her feet. "The kids?" she asks gruffly, with no preamble.

"We got them out," says Grantaire. "They're all safe and accounted for. Gav's staying with us."

"Good," she says, and smiles. It's tired, but genuine, and Enjolras feels bad for not trusting her. He really _wants_ to.

"What's waiting for us?" Grantaire tips his head at the house.

"The last of Patron-Minette," she says.

"Your parents?" asks Enjolras.

The cigarette wavers for a moment before she manages to slip it back between her lips, and she watches him for a very long time. "Apart from them," she admits at last, taking another drag. "You think I'm working for them, don't you?"

He shrugs.

"I don't," says Grantaire. "The _last_ of Patron-Minette?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Éponine stubs her cigarette out on the red brick wall angrily. "You killed everyone else, I think. If anyone knows where my parents are, it'll be this sorry lot. The skinny one's Babet. The big one's Gueulemer and the last one's Brujon."

Éponine opens the back door for them. Grantaire slips in first, then Enjolras. "I'm going to head home," says Éponine.

"Don't you want to see it through?" asks Enjolras. She'd been the one to do all the dirty work; he'd thought that she'd want to see what they'd do to the men she'd caught.

"No," she says shortly, and pulls her hair back into a ponytail. "I'm going home and I'm going to stand in the shower until it runs out of hot water and then I'm going to go out and punch someone."

"Ah," says Enjolras, because it finally dawns on him that she's not crossing her arms and keeping them at length, she's huddling over and keeping herself together. He gets it. "We'll take care of it."

They head into the living room. There's a soft cream carpet under their feet and a nicely carved coffee table and this week's TV guide magazine. The television is a respectable fifty inches and there's a bookcase of assorted literature and biographies and and the place looks lived in and it is terribly, devastatingly middle-class.

Of course, there's also the three men, hogtied and mostly naked, cocks now flaccid but still sticking outside of their pants where they had been when Éponine had broken her cover. That's probably a bit less middle-class.

"Right-o," says Grantaire, grimacing as he pulls a dirty sock out of one of their mouths at random. "This is going to be simple. We want to know where the Thénardiers are. Or the Jondrettes, or whatever they're calling themselves these days."

The guy snarls and yells at him, and Grantaire stuffs the sock back in. He tries the next one. Same thing happens. "Fucks sake," says Grantaire, scowling at the third man, who doesn't look like he's going to deviate from the pattern.

Instead, he asks, "Who are you? Who the fucking fuck are you?!"

Enjolras leans down and smiles, a terrifying stretch of his lips over his teeth. "We are Les Amis. We're your friends." Grantaire laughs out loud at that.

Idly, Enjolras turns back to the last remaining lieutenants of Patron-Minette. "Did you know, there are methods of torture that don't leave marks? No cuts or burns or broken bones. Not even bruises. Just pure agony." He leans in close to the last man. "Those methods? We don't use them." Grantaire pulls out a pocketknife. It's rusty, and not particularly sharp. Also, it has a corkscrew.

When they walk out of the living room, Grantaire holds out his hand. Enjolras blinks at it for a moment. The fingernails are still a bit stained with drying blood, but given the other mysterious patches of colour over Grantaire's jeans, it could probably be mistaken for paint. "High five," says Grantaire. Indulging him, Enjolras pats their hands together.

"We're your friends," repeats Grantaire. He laughs again. Enjolras looks over at him, and smiles despite himself. "Holy crap. You're terrifying." He grabs Enjolras by his jacket lapel and yanks him forward, mashing their mouths together.

Enjolras lets Grantaire take what he wants for at least three minutes before rocking back down onto his heels. His lips feel puffy, and he can feel the ghost sensation of Grantaire's tongue sliding against his. "You get aroused at the most disturbing things," he says primly, as if he's not the one who assumed Grantaire would join him in torture, as if he isn't the one who just left three men incapacitated but distinctly neither dead nor dying. Enjolras pauses in the hallway to reach for the telephone and call anonymously for an ambulance. Grantaire gapes at him, and kisses him again.

–

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Grantaire's is looking over Enjolras's shoulder. He's got several monitors on the go as he sorts files into groups – things they want to reveal to the public right now about who the new Les Amis are, things they want to sit on for a while.

"Yes," says Enjolras. "People will see, and they will understand, and they'll stand with us. And we can show them that anyone has the power to stop corruption, you don't have to be rich or influential or grow up in the right circles."

"People might just think we're murderers who kill whoever we want. What are you going to do? Silence them? Kill them?"

"Of course not," says Enjolras; he can feel himself bristling like a cat even though he knows Grantaire is just pointing out what plenty of other people will say about them. "We'll convince them, when they see how much better it is."

Grantaire drums his fingers on the arm of Enjolras's chair. "And then there will be other people who need taking down, and others, and others. There will always be people who want more power, more wealth. The world doesn't rebuild itself better, it just repeats its mistakes, because we are human and this is what we do to ourselves."

"Only because the right people aren't there to stop them," says Enjolras.

"And you think _we're_ the right ones to lead people to a better future?" Grantaire laughs, astonished and hollow; Enjolras isn't surprised. His words sent a bit of a chill down his own spine.

Enjolras turns around slowly. "Oh, Grantaire. Haven't you realised yet? I don't us expect us to survive this at all."

Grantaire swallows. Pulls away. "No. No, you can't mean that. Enjolras, you bastard. What do you mean, you don't intend to survive? Of course I fucking intend to survive; what's the fucking point otherwise?!"

Enjolras lets his hand linger in the air for a moment before it drops to his side. He sighs. "Grantaire." He doesn't know how to explain it to Grantaire, who's always had loose morals and dubious intentions. "I don't mean we'll die. We're – You're too good at what you do for that." He laughs hollowly. "I mean – I'm not going to come out of this intact. Can't you – feel it already? I've changed from the last time you met me. This, this is changing me and I'm not going to be able to stop it. I _know me._ " He pleads Grantaire to understand with his eyes because for once the words aren't coming to him.

And Grantaire… Grantaire does, of course. Because he's always been remarkably in tune with what Enjolras is thinking. "You are too self-aware by half."

–

The Thénardiers have apparently fled to Montfermeil, about forty minutes out of Paris.

"Don't tell Éponine," says Gavroche, sidling up to them after they share the news.

"Are you eavesdropping?" asks Enjolras.

"Yeah," says Gavroche. "C'mon, say you won't tell Éponine." Éponine's still wherever home is for her. She'd texted them to say that she'd got back safe but that she might not want to talk to anyone for a while, and they've been trying to respect that.

"Why not?"

Gavroche shrugs, an unusually solemn expression on his face. "'Cause I know where they are if they're in Montfermeil."

–

Enjolras protests, vehemently, to bringing Gavroche along with them. It's reassuring that he still has some morals. "He's a defenseless child," he says.

"Am not," says Gavroche, sounding incredibly insulted. "I have my own knife and everything." He sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out a knife as long as his forearm.

"Well," says Grantaire, amused, as Enjolras tries to figure out where exactly he's keeping that thing, "That settles that."

Gavroche ends up coming with them, mostly because he follows them when they set out, and Enjolras can't exactly tie him to a chair to stop him.

Once they get to Montfermeil, Gavroche starts giving directions from the back seat. Enjolras cranes around, and asks, "How are you so sure where they're going to be?"

Gavroche shrugs. "Home is home, innit."

Enjolras stares at him, trying to figure out how much of Gavroche is him putting up a careless facade or a tough-guy front, and how much of him is because he's just a very pure person. He can't work it out.

–

When they get closer, Enjolras rifles through Grantaire's weapons bag, and wonders what the best way to do this is. The Thénardiers need to die, that much is certain, but they're also going to use this to launch their new image as _Les Amis_.

"It feels like it should be personal," says Grantaire. He touches his arm, where he'd been shot.

"It is," says Enjolras. "But if make them suffer, the public would never back us. It has to be an execution, quick and painless and functional."

Grantaire nods thoughtfully. "You're right. Did you try any of the rifles on the range?"

"Only the Hechler and Koch," says Enjolras. He's not good at the longer distances.

"Take that out. And the Remmington, for me."

Enjolras makes an inquiring noise, but does so anyway.

"We need to get them both at the same time," explains Grantaire. "If we get one, the other will run, and it's hard enough finding a target through a window, let alone one who knows the lay of the house better than you do. If we lose them now, we might not get a second chance."

"One apiece then," says Enjolras grimly. "Let's hope this works."

Gavroche points out the building when they turn onto the right road. "It's an old hotel," he explains. "It was pretty shit when we lived there, but they tried to pass it off as ye olde world charm. You know, authentic old style inns with cockroaches and mice and creaky floorboards and mould on the wallpapers."

Enjolras shudders; it doesn't look remotely safe to live in. They keep driving, and park several streets away. Montfermeil is not exactly a thriving, busy town, so if they drive past multiple times, they'll definitely be noticed.

"Buildings on the other side of the road are a good height," says Grantaire. "But they also look occupied."

"How good are you at climbing?" asks Gavroche.

"Me? I'm good. _He's_ a little slow," says Grantaire, which is just patronising. True, but patronising.

That is how Enjolras ends up holding his arms above his head whilst standing on a garden wall so Grantaire can grab his wrists and haul him up. He's _got_ to get better at this. "Next time," whispers Grantaire as he helps Enjolras steady himself, "I'm bringing a rope ladder."

They end up on the roof, creeping gently across the slippery roof tiles until they're opposite the hotel. Enjolras leans against an old chimney for support, and helps Grantaire around to the other side. They set up the rifles, trained on the left hand front window, three floors up.

Gavroche spent the day lurking, making sure they lived there, and confirming which rooms they used. Enjolras had made the mistake of admitting that they probably couldn't have done this without Gavroche, and Gavroche had beamed, and socked him delightedly in the stomach.

"And now we wait," he murmurs.

"And now we wait," agrees Grantaire. It feels oddly similar to the time Enjolras killed that policeman. The rest of the world seems to fall away until it's just him and Grantaire, together on a rooftop, not saying anything but also not needing to, just breathing in each other's presences as they sit, and wait.

The lights flicker on and Enjolras ducks his head to the rifle. He feels Grantaire grow still beside him. "I've got a shot," murmurs Grantaire, impossibly quick at what he does. There's still only one silhouette in the room.

Enjolras feels his muscles lock into place, not stiff but rather, coiled and ready to spring. The second figure comes into view. "I've got it," he says after a moment. "On three. Two. One."

Twin shots fire through the night, and two figures drop out of sight.

Grantaire exhales. "And it's over."

Enjolras stares at the window. "What if I missed?"

Grantaire's already packing up his rifle, and Enjolras's, and slithering across the roof. "You didn't."

"But–"

"You didn't."

–

He really didn't. They break into the house, startling easy, and Enjolras _gags_ at the smell. It reeks of filth and mould. The wallpaper is spotted with dark spots of mildew until they bleed into each other and form a solid coat of black at the edges of the walls. The damp air clings to Enjolras and makes the hairs on his arm rise in disgust. He can see Grantaire sporting a similar look on his face as they both hurriedly bury their faces, Enjolras in his jacket and Grantaire into his elbow.

They suffer through three flights of creaky, swollen stairs because the smell of urine from the lift is too strong to even contemplate getting into it, and find themselves in the Thénardiers' final resting place.

They've made do with the cleanest of the rooms, which isn't saying a lot. They're lying at odd angles; Madam Thénardier has a hole right in the centre of her forehead whilst Monsieur Thénardier's is a little off to one side. The blood oozes thickly onto the uneven floor, and Grantaire holds his breath for the time it takes for him to pull out the camera and take a dozen pictures.

They get out of there as quickly as they can.

–

"I think I can _feel_ the fungal infections growing in my nose," says Grantaire as they breath in the sweet, sweet air of outside. " _Urgh_."

Enjolras shakes his head. "It's done. It's over." He shivers, suddenly cool in the darkness of the night, and Grantaire reaches out to him. He lets Grantaire pull him in for a hug, sinking into his broad arms. "Let's go home."

Enjolras speeds on the way back to Paris. It's something to do with the way his entire heart has lifted. It's like he used to feel after publishing a good, well-researched exposé. His legs are a bit jittery and their acceleration is all over the place because of it but there aren't too many people driving at this time of night anyway.

Grantaire reaches over, amused, and lays a hand on his knee to try and stop it, and Enjolras just grins.

"It's over," he says. "We can move on. We can move _back home_."

"I'm coming with you, then?" asks Grantaire.

"What?"

Grantaire shrugs. "You asked me to come in on the Patron-Minette case. I always assumed I'd be gone after that."

"I–" Enjolras stops, stunned. He brakes a little too hard at a red light and stares over at Grantaire. "You want to go?"

"No!" says Grantaire. "Not even a little bit."

Relief courses through Enjolras. "Don't fucking scare me like that," he snaps, grabbing Grantaire around the neck and pulling him forward for a rough, desperate kiss. Grantaire gasps helplessly into his mouth, as Enjolras bites vicious, triumphant imprints into his lip. He strains against the seatbelt and Grantaire's hand slides further up his leg, fingers dipping to brush against the inside of his thigh.

" _Guys_ ," says Gavroche. "The light is totally green."

–

They drive straight home. Actual home, not the place they've been at recently even though everything they need for Les Amis is still there, because there aren't going to be any people shooting at them anymore.

It's a bit dusty, as to be expected, but it smells of home. Gavroche excuses himself, and disappears into the night and Enjolras is too tired to try and snatch him back and convince him to stay in the downstairs communal area. The kid can take care of himself.

They tumble up the stairs and through into Enjolras's apartment. The bag of weapons go _thunk_ on the floor and Enjolras can't even bring himself to make his customary wince because Grantaire is right there and Grantaire's _staying_ , and _they're home_.

"Come on," says Grantaire, tugging at his jacket, dropping it onto the floor when he wrestles it off Enjolras's arms. The two of them trip over each other as they make their way towards Enjolras's bedroom and when they get there, Enjolras just swivels, and stares.

"What?" asks Grantaire.

Enjolras bites his lip. "Nothing. I just like looking at you."

"Oh my God," says Grantaire, ducking his head and busying himself getting his coat off. "Shit, Enjolras, you can't say things like that."

"Yes I can," says Enjolras, stepping forward and pulling Grantaire in by the waist until their chests are flush against each other. He can feel the warmth of Grantaire's body through the shirt, and he slips his fingertips just under the hem to stroke the soft skin at his waist. Grantaire hisses.

"It might take me a while to believe you," says Grantaire softly, his lips pulled into a self-deprecating smile.

Enjolras runs his tongue across Grantaire's lip, and breathes, "Then I'll just have to say it more often."

Grantaire pushes forward for a harder kiss, his hand around the base of Enjolras's neck to keep him close, bringing Enjolras straining up onto tiptoes to match him. Enjolras feels the back of his calves hit the mattress and he bounces backwards onto the bed, bringing Grantaire with him.

He tugs at Grantaire's shirt until Grantaire takes the hint and yanks it off, and then distracts Grantaire from getting his off by running his hands and his lips all over Grantaire's chest, teasing a nipple between his teeth as Grantaire groans above him.

"You can't – you can't _possibly_ like my chest," says Grantaire, and Enjolras sits up.

"Why not?"

Grantaire gestures helplessly at his torso; Enjolras still doesn't get it. "I look like I've been through a grinder, churned out and spat back out."

Enjolras blinks. "They're just scars." He presses his lips to a knife slash, and licks his way up it; when he pulls his head back, Grantaire looks so conflicted Enjolras wants to kiss him forever and tell him he's _not broken_. Instead, he slides his hands up Grantaire's biceps, which are impressive enough anyway, but he brushes his thumb across the shiny new skin of the bullet wound, and presses the softest of kisses there.

"Okay," says Grantaire. "Okay." He looks kind of overwhelmed, and that wasn't what Enjolras wanted for tonight so he loops his arms around Grantaire's neck and tugs him in.

"How about we find out if you like _my_ chest?" he asks, and that gives him the huffed smile he was looking for.

"I'm fairly sure I will," says Grantaire dryly, and when Enjolras pulls his top off, Grantaire's tongue darts out to wet his lips automatically. Enjolras just watches him watching; he can see the way Grantaire's mouth parts slightly when he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, and the soft groan as he eases them down. He could get drunk on this kind of attention, he thinks.

Grantaire flicks his eyes up, once, as if seeking permission, and then lowers his face to Enjolras's stomach. Enjolras shivers as Grantaire nibbles down his abs, swirls his tongue around his belly button and scrapes his stubble down lower. Grantaire's mouth is hot and wet and it's been a very long time since Enjolras has had – anything. He can feel his body yearn for more contact and he squirms. Grantaire chuckles.

"Don't tease," says Enjolras and he means it to stern but it comes out pleading as he threads his fingers through Grantaire's hair.

"I wouldn't," says Grantaire, pressing tiny kisses along the inside of Enjolras's thighs; he can feel himself spreading his legs for more and Grantaire obliges, turning them into little nips that send jolts of pleasure straight through Enjolras's body.

Grantaire slides a finger down the soft skin behind Enjolras's balls, and Enjolras moans embarrassingly loud, his hips canting. "Yeah?" asks Grantaire.

"Yeah," says Enjolras, "God, yeah. I have – in the drawer."

Grantaire tumbles over to the other side of the bed leaving Enjolras staring up at the ceiling for a moment, feeling exposed and vulnerable and nervous and – safe. "Back," says Grantaire, dropping a kiss onto Enjolras's cheek and that alone makes his stomach swoop for some reason. He grins dopily because they do that now. Casual kisses.

Grantaire flops over onto his side next to Enjolras as he works lube across his fingers. Enjolras finds himself distracted by the slickness of his fingers and when he remembers to look up again, Grantaire is watching him, amused.

"Shut up," grumbles Enjolras, catching his wrist and guiding it between his legs.

"I didn't say anything," murmurs Grantaire, leaning over for a dizzyingly sweet, wet kiss. Grantaire is gentle with him, thorough, and knows exactly how to angle his fingers so Enjolras is squirming on the bed.

"Keep _still_ ," says Grantaire, and Enjolras just bites at his jaw fondly. "You're ridiculous," says Grantaire, scraping his teeth against Enjolras's neck, kissing his way down. He takes Enjolras into his mouth when he adds another finger and Enjolras chokes off a groan, near rising off the bed.

"Grantaire," he gasps. "Shit, Grantaire." He says some other things too, he's sure but he has no idea _what_ because it's like his brain has just shut down and he's just making noises now.

Enjolras opens his eyes – he doesn't even remember closing them – and Grantaire's there. He raises a hand stupidly to cup Grantaire's face; Grantaire turns and presses a kiss into his palm. "You good?"

"Yeah," says Enjolras. "Yeah, don't stop. Don't, don't."

"I'm not," promises Grantaire, stroking his rough hands down Enjolras's sides until he can grab his hips. Enjolras gasps, pre-emptively because he can feel Grantaire against him, hard and just – _so close_.

Enjolras wraps his legs around Grantaire's waist and fists his hands into his hair and _yanks_ him forward. Grantaire slams into him and Enjolras shouts because it hurts and he _loves_ that it hurts. "Again," he says, breathless and demanding and Grantaire does.

The sheets kind of go everywhere; they slide and tangle in them until Grantaire crowds him up against the headboard. It digs into his back and Grantaire's fingers pinches bruises into his ass and Enjolras rakes scratches down his back in retaliation as Grantaire fucks him hard and senseless.

Enjolras loses track of time, or his senses, or possibly just blacks out from sheer pleasure at some point because when he's aware of himself again, his body feels heavy and sated; Grantaire's arm is flung across his chest and everything hurts but in a good way. _Oh my God_ , he means to say, but it comes out more as, "Nnnnrgh."

"Nnnnrgh," agrees Grantaire, the noise rumbling through their bodies.

Enjolras runs a hand down Grantaire's bare chest, letting the pads of his fingers skim over the puckered and faded scars that crop up every so often. "You are too good to me," he says softly.

Grantaire mumbles drowsily and rolls over onto his side so that he can face Enjolras, dislodging Enjolras's hand in the process until it rests on Grantaire's waist instead. He dips his head until he can press a lazy kiss to the slope of Enjolras's shoulder. "I'm not," he says. "I'm not particularly good to anyone, let alone you. I take you out and show you how to kill people."

"You are," insists Enjolras. It's important that Grantaire gets this. "You – you." He struggles to find a way to express everything they encompass for each other because it's love, but it's _more_ than that. "You're mine," says Enjolras eventually. "I know people don't belong to other people, it sounds awful, but you do, don't you? You're mine."

Grantaire smiles slowly; it spreads across his whole face until he glows with contentment. "Yeah. Guess I am."

"I have a secret," says Enjolras, tracing the outlines of Grantaire's lips. "I'm yours too."

–

And so. Enjolras permanently ends up the head of an organised crime organisation mostly by accident. It is, perhaps, not the career path he had envisioned for himself, and it doesn't provide him with the _best_ job security given the number of people who now want him dead, but it's a job, and he's good at it.

It's not quite Enjolras standing at the front of the room with a gavel, but the effect is similar. He stands, and the room falls quiet. "We need to talk, as an entire group, about the direction we're heading in. I think it's safe to say that we have started down the slippery slope of morality."

Grantaire, near the back, snorts as he picks at the label of his beer bottle, and Enjolras gives him a nod. "Apart from Grantaire, who threw himself down head first, yelling 'As you wish' and is already lying at the bottom."

Bossuet splutters out a laugh, and that sets off a round of laughter. Grantaire grins good-naturedly, and tips his bottle at Enjolras.

"Anyhow," says Enjolras, the smile fading from his face as he carries on, "we need to know if we are going to carry on this way. I think we all thought, or hoped, that after Patron-Minette, we could go back to what we used to be. I don't think we can; we've moved on too far from pinpointing and concentrating on specific criminal activities that we want to flush out. We can't go back to that, and more importantly, we have the means, the influence, to do _so much more_ than that now."

Enjolras can hear his voice rising, the way it always does when he cares. He pauses for breath, and the room is silent. Everyone is watching him with bated breath, to see where he's going to take them next, and Enjolras knows that whatever he says next is important. He could change the future of France, and it could start here.

"The government thinks we are insane. The people think we are heroes. They're both wrong. We're not good people anymore," says Enjolras slowly. He looks around at his friends, and his heart aches. They were good people once. "We're run on funds that come from taking hits on people. We kill people. _I_ kill people."

Les Amis all look back around at him, faces unusually solemn. Marius fidgets, and Enjolras nods at him. "I think we need a public face. I mean, they already know me so my face is out there. But I think Marius, at least, should join me. It'll be good for people to know that we have a senator's grandson siding with us, that he believes we can make a better world than the one his grandfather made."

There are nods, all around; Marius looks startled but he'd been the one who wanted in, who wanted to help.

Enjolras carries on. "I need to know, now, before it's too late, if any of you don't want to go forward with this. Because it's important that we all agree, that there is an absolute consensus. I don't have veto power on this."

Enjolras looks down at the notes he has on the piece of paper in front of him, though he knows well what they say. "We could go into politics," he says, and his voice comes out pleading even to himself. It's true. Using the existing governing system to push through their ideas could work. _Would_. Enjolras would make it work.

"We're criminals," says Courfeyrac incredulously.

"Well," says Enjolras. "So are most politicians."

There's a long pause, and then the tension collapses. Laughter ricochets around the table, and it's like someone cuts all invisible strings attached to them all, because half of them slump in relief.

"So," says Enjolras, half relieved and half resigned. "We're not going into politics?"

"As much as I think you would make an excellent President," says Courfeyrac. "No. We're not going into politics, Enjolras."

Enjolras licks his lips. He's mostly known what his friends are going to say up to know, but he's not certain how they'll respond to his next suggestion. "Then," he says, "what do you think of controlling politics instead?"

–

"Someday, someone's going to have to overthrow me." Enjolras says it dreamily, already half thinking forward to that day.

Grantaire snorts, an ugly, brusque sound as he yanks Enjolras forward by the arm until Enjolras is folded on his chest and Grantaire can cling to him so hard Enjolras can feel where the little dotted fingertip bruises will form across his waist and shoulders. "Well they won't succeed. They'll have to go through me first," he says. Enjolras runs his fingers through Grantaire's curls. He knows. He knows he's going to see Grantaire die in front of him, one day.

Grantaire holds Enjolras like he can't believe he's there. Enjolras holds Grantaire like he might disappear if he let go. There's a difference. Grantaire cradles Enjolras in his arms, and in return Enjolras clings to him in desperation. "You have to promise me," says Enjolras.

"I do," says Grantaire, because he would promise Enjolras anything. Enjolras knows that, believes that. He's using it to make sure Grantaire will do this for him. It's selfish and cruel, he knows it is, but Enjolras cannot help it. It will be ugly. _He_ will be ugly. He can already feel it, the downward spiral pulling at him, and he's allowed one thing for himself, surely.

"Promise me you'll stop me if I become too much."

"I will."

Enjolras lets Grantaire pull him in closer until their bellies are flush against each other. "I love you," says Enjolras. He hopes it will be enough to stop him.


	3. Chapter 3

It's dark and Enjolras has to squint when he looks up. Grantaire's head appears, and a rope unfurls over the side of the roof a moment later. If Grantaire had ever wanted to be a cat burglar, he'd be a good one. Enjolras, on the other hand, is just about passable at it even after a multitude of lessons with Éponine. That's why Grantaire's wriggling around the roof, securing ropes, and Enjolras is the one climbing up said rope, which is knotted at convenient intervals for foot and hand holds.

By the time Enjolras has climbed up to the right window, Grantaire is already perched on the windowsill, picking the lock and easing it open. He holds a hand out to Enjolras and Enjolras takes it, doesn't even consider not taking it.

Studying Marius's descriptions of the mansion have paid off; everything seems to be exactly where he said it would be. Enjolras shuts the window behind him, draws the curtain again. Grantaire lights a candle and sets it on the bedside table; it flickers atmospherically.

Enjolras can't see his face, covered with a balaclava and scarves, but he suspects Grantaire is smiling at him. He smiles back. Enjolras's head, on the other hand, is uncovered. He's supposed to be recognisable. His hair has started to grow out again, soft curls that whisper against his collars. Grantaire likes it. Enjolras likes that Grantaire likes it.

When he holds out a hand, Grantaire knows to slide a knife into it. They're like a surgeon and an assistant, and Enjolras intends to carve every bit of corruption out of this country. Grantaire sinks back into the shadows and Enjolras takes a deep breath. He shakes the old man snoring peacefully on his bed by the shoulder, and unsheathes the knife. It gleams in the wavering light of the candle.

"Monsieur Gillenormand. Good evening. We need to talk."

France flies a new flag now, and it is red.

**Author's Note:**

> Gosh, this was a ride. I hope you all liked it, thank you for reading! Come hit me up on [tumblr](http://defractum.tumblr.com/)!


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